Because He Was Alone
by BringMeBackToEarth
Summary: Parentlock! When Sherlock and John are investigating a mystery that involves several abductions from orphanages, what will happen when Sherlock meets a tiny boy who brings out feelings in him he didn't even know he had... Is Sherlock capable of being a father...? Lots of fluff and cuteness, but there are mild mentions of child abuse. Rated T just in case.
1. Chapter One: John Don't Say Anything

Chapter One: John, Don't Say Anything

Steeling himself, Lestrade made his way up the steps to the large, dark-looking building. He stopped just in front of the door and turned back to look at the two men following closely behind. He began talking to the taller one.

"Now, Sherlock, please try to remember –"

"Yes, yes, I know," Sherlock huffed, cutting him off. "No being rude to the employees, and no frightening the children; I've already been given this talk by John. Now can we please go in?"

The other man, John, rolled his eyes as the Detective Inspector continued through the large double doors into the orphanage.

Inside was dark, stuffy, and had the distinctive smell of must. The three men began walking down a long hallway, passing several large rooms along the way. Sherlock quickly peered into each one as they swiftly walked past. The men were quickly approaching several sets of desks at the end of the hall grey hall, Sherlock making assessments the whole way, but all three men thinking of the situation at hand.

Last week, Greg Lestrade had called Sherlock with a case; children were being abducted from orphanages all across England, but no bodies had been found, leading everyone to suspect the perpetrator was keeping the children. Sherlock agreed to help, and since he had, two more children had been abducted. This would mean five children had been taken, ages two, four, eight, ten, and twelve, in order of abduction.

And, as if the case wasn't disturbing enough on its own, as Sherlock, John, and Lestrade began visiting orphanages, they discovered most of them couldn't even give a description of the children that had been abducted, showing just how little care was put into these orphanages, thus making inferences on the abductions very difficult.

To John and Greg, this discovery was just disturbing and horribly sad, but to Sherlock it was a clue: _The kidnapper is taking children from orphanages where he knows they will be easy to snatch away, and where they won't be easily missed... Has adequate information on where such places would be...+_

The men were almost to the desks where several women sat playing with their phones. The sounds of children's voices could be heard in the distance.

As they passed the last room, Sherlock once again peered in. In the other rooms, there had been two things: either emptiness, or several children playing, talking, or walking around.

This last room, though, appeared empty, so Sherlock gave a slight nod of his head, and continued along. But just as he was about to walk up to John and Lestrade, a small sound caused him to turn back towards the supposedly empty room. This time, though, he walked in.

In a corner, which had been originally obscured from view, sat a very young, very small boy with dark auburn hair, which was wildly curly. He was sat on the ground, his chubby little legs splayed out in front of him. In front of him, resting on the filthy floor, was a piece of paper, onto which the young boy was haphazardly scribbling something with a broken, red crayon, which had created the noise Sherlock had heard. The boy's bottom lip protruded out slightly, and his eyebrows were drawn together; he looked to be concentrating on what he was scribbling on the paper between his legs. Sherlock guessed he couldn't have been more than 14 months old.

At the sound of Sherlock entering the room, though, the tiny boy quickly stopped what he was doing and looked up at the detective with huge, dark, green-blue eyes, which were oddly striking, he noted.

The two stared at each other for a moment, Sherlock peering at the young boy with a rather soft look on his face. He made a step towards the child. Eyes widening in fear, the little boy let out a small squeak, his eyes quickly filling with tears. His tiny chest heaving, the child turned around and desperately tried to crawl away from Sherlock, only to be met with a grey, dirty wall. Upon realizing there was now way out, the little boy began to panic, tears streaming streaming down his face as hurriedly tried to get away from the detective.

Sherlock had frozen immediately, as soon as the child had tried to scurry away from him. His eyebrows worriedly pulled together. When the the little boy started to cry, though, he became truly concerned, unsure of what he should do, but wanting to help in some way.

"Ssshh, shhh, it's all right, it's okay," he began whispering to the child, but to no avail. The small boy had now reached the wall, and was trying as hard as he could to stand up.

Though he knew it was going to upset the young boy more, with his lips turned into a sad frown, Sherlock walked towards the tiny figure, still whispering softly to him, and took note of the way the young boy flinched when he reached for him, plucking him from his position on the ground.

Initially, the boy desperately tried to protest by flailing his little limbs this way and that.

"Shh," Sherlock whispered, trying desperately to end the little boy's terror and show him he was safe. Almost instinctively, the detective clutched the boy to his chest, his large hand rubbing soothing circles on the child's back, hoping to soothe him.

And then, suddenly, as the little boy felt the Sherlock's comforting hand on his back, he stopped protesting. Tears still streaming down his face, the child paused, taking a moment to stare up at the detective. Chest still heaving, and with a new wave of tears filling his eyes, the little boy thrust his head into the crook of Sherlock's shoulder, sobs shaking his tiny body as tears began to stain the detective's jacket.

Though he would never admit it, Sherlock felt extremely shaken by what he had just witnessed. He held the little boy close to his chest, trying to calm him down. The detective's mind was thinking quickly about what he had just seen. He estimated the boy was probably fourteen to sixteen months old, if not younger. But judging by the fact that he was already beginning to draw, his motor skills were clearly advanced, especially for having grown up in the conditions of the orphanage. His clothes were dirty and tattered, face covered with dirt. _Neglected because he's younger, and can't do these things for himself, _Sherlock noted. Even though the child had a significant amount of baby fat, which made his face seem full, he was still painfully thin, making him look even more fragile than his already-tiny form would. Sherlock was also positive the crying boy in his arms had been abused, and rather badly judging by the reaction the child had had to him.

As he was thinking about this realization, anger boiled in Sherlock's veins, spreading throughout his body, and he subconsciously tightened his grip on the little boy. He couldn't explain why he was feeling this much anger about a tiny, little human that he didn't even know, but he felt oddly protective of the little boy whose sobbing had stopped and was now reduced to just little sniffles. His head was still snuggled tightly into the crook of Sherlock's neck, though and he was moaning quietly to himself, a tiny hand clutching the detective's shirt.

"Shh, see," Sherlock murmured, running a hand over the little boy's back. "It's all right… You're all right." He let go of the small boy's back ever so slightly as if to give him reassurance that it was okay to look up.

Cautiously, still with a little fear in his eyes, the auburn-haired boy pulled his tear-stained face away from the detective's soft coat. He looked up at the man with puffy eyes, sniffling sadly to himself.

Sherlock gave the little boy a warm smile in an attempt to reassure the child that he was not going to hurt him.

After staring up at the detective for several more moments, the small boy's eyelids began to droop. He pulled his chubby little arms away from his sides, releasing the grip he had on Sherlock's shirt, and tiredly reached them up towards the detective, placing one hand on his shoulder, the other just at the base of the detective's neck. His eyes slowly fluttered closed, and with a deep breath, he leaned into Sherlock, where he quickly fell asleep, his tiny body rising and falling with each deep breath.

_Has not slept for a significant while, _Sherlock thought.

The detective stared quietly down at the sleeping child in his arms, who now looked completely peaceful... And felt a strange fluttering in his chest...

* * *

John and Lestrade hadn't really noticed Sherlock's absence until they both noted that there hadn't been any insults made towards the women they had been talking to. John turned around and realized Sherlock was not there.

As if on cue, the consulting detective walked out of the room closest to Lestrade and John. The doctor was going to say something terribly sarcastic to his friend when he noticed the incredibly small being in his flat mate's arms. The doctor's mouth hung open.

"John, don't say anything," began Sherlock, "but I'm taking this child home with me today."


	2. Chapter Two: Hamish

Chapter Two: Hamish

"John, don't say anything," began Sherlock, "but I'm taking this child home with me today."

Lestrade turned around, a very confused look on his face at Sherlock's last comment. But upon turning around, and seeing the baby in the detective's arms, Lestrade's mouth, too, hung open.

"What?" John began, tripping over his own words. "No, Sherlo— It's—You can't just—" he stuttered.

"John, do please get it out," Sherlock sighed.

"N-no!" John practically squeaked.

"John, I told you not to say anything," Sherlock scolded, contradicting himself. "And please be quiet, he's sleeping." Giving the doctor a stern look, the detective gestured with his head to the sleeping figure in his arms.

Moving swiftly, Sherlock glided between the two men, who were both staring wide-eyed as the detective carried on as if nothing had happened, the small child sleeping soundly against his chest.

Sherlock approached the woman at the first desk who had, finally, looked away from her phone. She gazed annoyingly at the detective and was met with an icily cold smile. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock turned his head just slightly in the direction of John and Lestrade behind him, who were both still at a loss for words.

"John, Lestrade, could you please step outside for a moment? I'll be right out, I promise, I just need to have a talk with this young woman here. Besides, we all know already that this orphanage is going to be like all the others; there will be no information on the twelve-year old that was abducted, so we're wasting our time anyway." Sherlock carefully took his hand, which had previously been resting on the little boy's back and used it to pull out his phone from his pocket. He pressed a number and held it up to his ear.

He waited for the person to pick up, then, "Hello, Mycroft— Yes I am in fact calling you. Wonderful observation skills, as usual, brother." He rolled his eyes. "Listen, Mycroft, I need your help... Yes… Yes… Well—" Sherlock turned around and realized John and Lestrade had not yet left.

"Go on, I said I'd be out soon," Sherlock said calmly. Still shocked, John and Lestrade began to sluggishly make their way back down the hallway they had just entered through moments ago until they were back outside.

* * *

The two had waited in silence for several minutes, though it seemed like much longer, when Sherlock finally emerged from the orphanage, his hand now back to cradling the still-sleeping child, and a smug smile on his face.

"Well," began Lestrade, "I guess he couldn't have done too much damage; the kid's still asleep." John let out a dark chuckle as he walked up to Sherlock, determination in his step.

"Sherlock," he began in a dangerous tone.

"I know, John," the detective replied tersely, sounding almost guilty. The army doctor stopped, his rant now forgotten, as he saw the sad look in the detective's eyes. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock continued, "But I couldn't leave him in there," he whispered, eyes falling to the sleeping child in his arms. "I just couldn't…"

John spoke again, his voice much more soft this time, though. "Of course you could have, Sherlock. He would have been just fine there. I mean look at him. He's an adorable kid; I'm surprised he hasn't been adopted yet! He'll be better of with a family who can care for him properly, rather than us—" The doctor stopped immediately, realizing what it sounded like he had just said. The hurt on Sherlock's face and in his eyes were evident.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "John, this little boy has been abused repeatedly, he hasn't been fed in who knows how long—just look at him! He's been neglected his whole life! Do you think I wouldn't be able to take good care of him, John? Is that it? Because of the _way I am_? Did it ever occur to you to think of _why_ I am the way I am? Of course it hasn't, because if it had, you would understand _why_ I couldn't leave him in there!" Sherlock's face was now flushed a light pink color. "I didn't take him because he was thin, or dirty, or neglected… I took him because he was alone, John! Because he was alone… I was alone all of my childhood, and do you see how I turned out? That's why I can't leave him in there, because if I do, his whole childhood will be ruined! And then he'll end up…" Sherlock's anger had subsided and was now replaced with sadness. "I just... couldn't leave him, John…"

The detective's eyes drifted again to the sleeping baby in his arms. Lestrade, a few feet away, awkwardly stared at the ground, as John looked at his flat-mate with utter guilt. He'd never known that about Sherlock's childhood. Although, admittedly, that did explain a lot. He looked at the innocent child in Sherlock's arms, and suddenly felt totally at ease with the whole situation, though he didn't quite understand why.

"Okay," he whispered. Sherlock looked back at John with hopeful eyes.

"You mean, you're okay with this?" He gestured down to the child.

John hesitated, but then answered confidently, "Yes. Let's take him home." He turned to try and hail a cab.

"Hamish."

"What?" John asked, confused. He turned back to Sherlock.

"Hamish," Sherlock answered. "His name is Hamish," he stated with a small smile. John couldn't help but smile, too.

"And you didn't just name him that, did you?" the doctor asked, somewhat incredulously. Sherlock shook his head 'no.'

"Hmm," John pondered, "It does make one believe in something, doesn't it?" he said with a smile.


	3. Chapter Three: Home

**Notes: I would just like to say, I know that so far, this has been a tiny bit unrealistic, but that's okay! Creative license, right? Anyways, just wanted to apologize for being slightly unrealistic in the beginning, buuut I hope you liked in anyways.**

**Also, there's more fluff in this chapter, because I just love it!**

**Thanks readers! =)**

Chapter Three: Home

"Just here, please," John told the cabbie.

"Wait, where are you going? We aren't home yet," he asked as John began to get out of the now-stopped cab, an alarmed look on his face.

"Sherlock," John said as if he was a small child, "you're taking care of a baby. We have to get things like food, nappies, a cot, and baby clothes and—the list goes on and on. Soo," John drawled," I'm going to the store to get everything we'll need, and you're going home to take care of Hamish until I get back."

"But John, what if I do something wrong? What if I hurt him, or he starts crying or—"

"Sherlock! You're going to be just fine. Besides, I'm still working at surgery, so either way you're going to be home alone with him when I go to work. This will be just like that." He gave Sherlock a reassuring look, though he still looked terribly nervous. John smiled. "You'll be all right. I promise. I'll be back before you know it," he finished as he stepped out of the cab, leaving Sherlock alone with Hamish, who was still fast asleep on his chest.

* * *

The cabbie pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street, and Sherlock carefully opened the door, trying not to jostle the sleeping baby in his arms, and stepped out. He walked up the steps, and unlocked the door, entering the ever-welcoming flat.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he called out as quietly as he could. But there was no response. Eyebrows pulled together, he curiously walked the short length of the hallway to Mrs. Hudson's flat, and peered in. The lights were out.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed to himself, "that's right, Mrs. Hudson is still away on holiday." Shrugging slightly, he headed up to the flat he and John shared. He made to walk towards his bedroom so as to lay Hamish on the bed, but just as he reached his door, the baby stirred in his arms, letting out a large yawn, the sound of which made Sherlock smile.

The little boy sleepily opened his eyes and peered up at Sherlock, who, in turn, gave him a warm smile. Hamish's lips turned upward in what the detective was sure was almost a smile. The little boy turned his head around to look to his left, and he physically started in Sherlock's arms, startling the detective, in turn. The little boy's eyes frantically began to look at the new, colorful surroundings of the flat, his eyes darting this way, and that, his little chest heaving as his breath became very quick.

Sherlock, realizing that Hamish was panicking at his new, surroundings, hurriedly tried to calm the boy down by rubbing his back and telling him, "No, no, Hamish it's all right, you're safe, you're safe."

Upon hearing his name, Hamish turned towards Sherlock again, tears brimming in his green eyes.

In an effort to show Hamish that although his surroundings were new, they weren't scary or dangerous, Sherlock hurried over to the wall with the yellow smiley face drawn on it.

Very carefully and slowly, Sherlock moved Hamish so he was sitting on his almost-non-existent-hip, and reached for his tiny left hand, which was resting on the hand the detective had firmly wrapped around the little boy's middle.

Hamish flinched slightly as Sherlock's hand moved towards him, though he still allowed the detective to grab his own. Tears were threatening to fall.

Carefully, Sherlock moved closer to the wall, moving Hamish's hand closer and closer. When they were just inches away from the patterned wall, the little boy began to panic again and tried to pull his chubby little hand away.

"It's all right, Hamish. Nothing's going to happen." He gave Hamish a reassuring smile, and continued moving their hands closer.

Hamish gasped slightly when his small hand felt the surface of the smooth wall, but he didn't pull away this time. Instead, he began to move his hand along the surface, which was so different from the rough, grey e walls he was used to at the orphanage. His eyes widened with newfound wonder as he continued to move his small hand up and down.

"That's a wall, Hamish," Sherlock said looking down at the little child's face with a smile. He pulled the little boy's hand away and moved over to the window that faced the street below. Slowly, he moved Hamish's chubby hand to it.

"This is a window. You look out of it, and you can see things happening outside. I'm afraid we only have a view of a street and some cars, though." He smiled as the little boy began sliding his chubby hand up and down, his eyes, again, widening in wonder.

"Look out, Hamish," said Sherlock. He leaned their bodies closer to the window, trying to prompt the little boy to look down and out. Eventually, Hamish did, and when he saw the street so far below, and the cars hurrying by, he gasped and quickly turned away, burying his face in the detective's shirt.

"No, no, no, you can't fall out, I promise. See?" The detective leaned against the window, trying to show Hamish that they were both safely inside. As a result, the little boy just pushed harder against Sherlock's chest, trying to distance himself even further from the window.

"Hamish, look." Upon hearing his name, Hamish very slow turned his face out of the detective's shirt, and peered out the window, fear and tears still in his eyes. He looked at Sherlock's shoulder which was leaning heavily against the window, and, seeing how both of them were still safely inside, reached his little hand out again, and began touching the window, a small smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock saw the smile, and took it as encouragement to go on, and began running around the room, showing Hamish everything he could, and explaining what it was to him. He showed him the skull, the kitchen table, the refrigerator, how the cabinets opened and shut, how the curtains on the window moved, the feeling of his and John's chair, and the funny sound the keys on John's laptop made when they were clicked. Sherlock was becoming excited at the prospect of being able to fill Hamish's mind with information and being able to teach him everything. The prospect of having a mind, so barely touched by the world, filled Sherlock with a feeling of pride and happiness he knew he had never felt before.

Upon hearing each new item, Hamish began repeating the words back to Sherlock, which received much encouragement, though most times, he just ended up making little baby noises and gurgles.

Sherlock was sure the little boy's growth had been stunted by his time spent in the orphanage, but he still felt a swell of pride every time Hamish tried to pronounce something.

After Sherlock had shown the little boy everything he could think of around the flat, he was practically dancing around with Hamish in his hands, the little boy squealing with happiness.

Sherlock fell onto the couch, pulling a still-squealing Hamish onto his chest. He chuckled lightly as he saw the little boy smile widely up at him. Slowly, the detective sat up, propping himself up with a pillow behind his back. The little boy was settled on his hips, his back leaning against Sherlock's folded legs.

Hamish stared up at the detective, the smile slowly leaving his face to be replaced by one of concentration. Sherlock looked back at him, a small smile playing on his lips. He took a good moment to really look at Hamish, and noticed how, to some, he could look like he actually _was_ Sherlock's biological son. Hamish's hair was very similar to Sherlock's, though his wasn't quite black like Sherlock's was, but both had equally curly hair. Even with his baby fat, you could tell he was going to have rather prominent cheekbones, much like Sherlock already has. And though his eyes were not the same steele-grey color as the detective's, they had that same piercing look Sherlock's always had.

The detective was so lost in his observations; he didn't notice Hamish trying to stand up on his stomach. Pulling himself away from his thoughts, Sherlock moved his hands under the little boy's armpits, and gently lifted him up so he was no longer leaning back against his legs, but was now standing on his chest.

With a determined look on his face, Hamish stuck out his bottom lip, all the while looking at Sherlock, and moved closer to the detective's face. Tentatively, he reached one hand out, placing his chubby fingers on Sherlock's sharp cheekbone.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as the little boy touched his face, the small fingers moving ever so slightly against his skin. A warmth flooded Sherlock's chest, something he'd never experienced before. He looked into Hamish's deep green eyes, who were still focused on Sherlock's cheek. Carefully, the little boy moved his other hand to Sherlock's other cheekbone, and used the detective's face to gently pull himself into a standing position so the two were eye-to-eye. The little boy flattened his hands against Sherlock's cheeks and then looked into his eyes questioningly.

Finding his voice again, Sherlock whispered, "What, Hamish?"

Hamish made some sort of humming sound in response, then, in replace of asking a question, took his right hand and pointed at Sherlock, a questioning look on his face. He then placed his little fingers back on the detective's face, his tiny fingernails scratching at the skin ever so slightly.

Finally, Sherlock understood what Hamish wanted; he had been telling Hamish the names of everything else around the flat, and now the little boy wanted to know what _he_ was called. Still feeling the small hands on his face, Sherlock started to answer, "Sher—,"but then realized that, technically, to Hamish, he wasn't Sherlock. To Hamish, he was now his father.

At this realization Sherlock froze, just now understanding the gravity of what he had done by adopting Hamish. A small smile graced his lips before he whispered to Hamish, "I'm Daddy."

Upon hearing this, Hamish's large smile returned, and he once again tried to repeat what Sherlock had just said.

"Dddd… Ddduuu…. Daaaa!" He shouted triumphantly. "Da'! Da'!" he squealed. Realizing that Hamish had almost said 'daddy,' Sherlock sat up quickly, clutching Hamish to his chest, a large smile spreading on his face. "Well done, Hamish! Oh! Very, very good job!" The little boy smiled widely at the detective, his eyes bright with excitement.

Still smiling, Hamish leaned forward, resting his head against the detective's chest.

The two sat like that, curled up on the couch, just enjoying each other's company. They were interrupted, though, by the sound of John bustling through the door downstairs.


	4. Chapter Four: Food, Bath, Bed

Hello readers! I would like to apologize for all the writing mistakes in these, so please excuse! =) Thanks! Maybe I should read these before I post them…

Chapter Four: Food, Bath, and Bed

Hamish and Sherlock were startled at the sound of John opening the door. Sherlock relaxed instantly, but little Hamish tensed in Sherlock's arms and fearfully looked towards the stairs John was now walking up, hands full of bags.

"Nah, don't need your help at all, Sherlock, thanks for offering, though," John huffed sarcastically.

"You're welcome," Sherlock replied, standing up, putting Hamish on his hip, and crossing over to John.

"Here, just a moment, I've got to go get the cot and the rest of the bags," John said as he walked back down the stairs to get the rest of the groceries.

Sherlock walked over to one of the bags and opened it. Inside was a blue onesie with trains covering it. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but looked back at Hamish and the tattered clothes he was wearing, and decided trains on a onesie were fine. He plucked the garment out of the plastic bag, quickly tore the tags off, snatched a nappy and wipes and walked back out of the kitchen just as John was coming up the stairs, a large box tucked haphazardly under his arm, his hands carrying the last of the bags.

Sherlock laid all of the items down on the ground and then sat down, laying Hamish on his back. The boy squirmed slightly, but relaxed as Sherlock began tugging off his dirty shirt. He pulled the tattered pants off, too, and threw the two garments towards the kitchen where they hit the wall and fell with a light 'thud.'

Sherlock looked back at Hamish and only then did he realize how truly filthy the poor boy was. His whole body was covered in patches of dirt and grime, and his nappy hadn't been changed for far too long. Sherlock quickly took the soiled nappy off, and tried to put a new one on. It was lopsided, and not quite done all the way, but it would work, decided Sherlock. He reached for the onesie, but then stopped mid-way.

"John?" he called.

"Yeah?" John entered from the kitchen, and his eyes fell to little Hamish. "Oh," he said sadly as he saw how truly dirty the child was.

"John," Sherlock repeated, pulling his flat mate out of his thinking, "should we just leave him in his nappy until we can give him a bath?" he asked.

"Yes," John replied, "he'll be fine. I've already started sterilizing everything." John sauntered over to Sherlock and Hamish. He crouched down, a smile on his face. Hamish flinched away, trying to reach for Sherlock. Sherlock reached his hand out for Hamish to grab onto. He curled one tiny hand around Sherlock's finger.

"It's all right, Hamish. This is John." Sherlock pointed with his free hand to John, then looked back at Hamish. "He's a friend." Sherlock smiled, as he pulled Hamish up into his lap. Hamish scrunched back, pushing himself against Sherlock's stomach, shying away from John.

"No, Hamish, he's nice. See?" Sherlock took Hamish's hand like he had done earlier with the wall and window, and reach out so Hamish's little hand was touching John's.

When John smiled reassuringly at Hamish and said, "Hey, little man," he calmed down considerably as he traced his tiny fingers over John's hand. The flat-mates smiled down at the little boy between them, but the sweet moment was interrupted by the sound of Hamish's stomach grumbling. The little boy looked down at his stomach, and then looked expectantly at the two men.

"Right then," John sighed, pushing himself up off the ground. Sherlock followed closely behind and the trio entered the kitchen.

John made a bottle for Hamish, walking Sherlock through the steps so he would be able to do it himself when John left for work.

John handed Sherlock the now-finished bottle of formula and held it out for Sherlock expectantly. Tentatively Sherlock took it in his free hand.

"Now, how should I um…" He trailed off, trying to figure out how to position Hamish so as to feed him properly. John chuckled slightly, but came over by Sherlock, who was now seated at their little table with Hamish in his lap, and moved the young boy so that Sherlock was cradling him in the crook of his arm.

Sherlock situated himself so he was more comfortable then moved the warm bottle of milk towards Hamish.

Sherlock watched as Hamish slowly sucked at the bottle, and then as his eyes widened at the taste of it. The hungry little boy began sucking – almost violently – at the bottle. Sherlock and John exchanged a look.

_Obviously has not been fed for longer than originally anticipated, _though Sherlock, looking back at Hamish, who's eyes had began to droop considerably.

John smiled fondly at the little boy, then looked at his watch.

"Oh no! Sorry, Sherlock, but I've got to go! I forgot I have a date with Mary tonight at 7:30 and it's already 7:20! I've got to run," John said hurriedly as he reached for his coat.

"But John—" Sherlock started.

"No," John sighed, "no 'buts.' You'll be just fine, I promise. Just be sure that you don't feed him another bottle for a while; we don't want him to get sick. So let that one settle, burp him, give him a bath, and if he's still hungry, make him another bottle, then put him to bed. Simple! I'll be back late. 'Night!" And with that, he was gone, leaving Sherlock alone with Hamish.

Sherlock turned his attention back to Hamish, who had almost downed the entire bottle of formula.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his phone going off. Carefully, he held and fed Hamish with the same hand as he reached and pulled out his phone from his pocket. Hamish fussed slightly at the movement, but continued sucking away at the bottle.

**Got everything you wanted on him. Should be there either late tonight or early tomorrow. MH  
**

_That's right_, Sherlock thought. He'd forgotten that when he'd been on the phone with Mycroft earlier that day, he'd asked him to retrieve any, and all information he could on Hamish and send it to him. _Good. _He turned his attention back to Hamish who had just made a sound of protest as he finished his milk, the bottle now completely empty.

Gently, Sherlock tried to pull the bottle from Hamish's mouth, which received a grunt of protest, and the young boy latching down even more on the bottle.

"I know, I know you're hungry, Hamish, and I'm sorry, but you can't have any more. Not until it's settled." Sherlock tugged more, pulling the bottle out of Hamish's mouth. He set the empty bottle on the table, pulling Hamish up and onto his shoulder. Once he had been properly burped, Sherlock pulled the little boy back onto his lap.

"Well," he began, peering at Hamish and remembering how dirty the poor child was, "let's take a bath, then, shall we?" Lifting him up by his armpits, Sherlock pulled Hamish onto his shoulder and walked into his bedroom then into the bathroom. He started the water running; when it occurred to him that Hamish would probably want some toys to play with. Leaving the water running, Sherlock hurried back into the kitchen, and looked through the bags until he found the one, which contained bath toys, as well as baby soap. _Thank you John, _he silently thanked, grabbing the items in his free hand.

Once in the bathroom he put the toys and the soap on the counter of the sink, and shut the water off. He knew Hamish would probably need to have two baths – one to get the dirt off, and then one to actually get him cleaned.

Sherlock removed Hamish's nappy, and made to put the little boy in the bath. Hamish began to scream, and cry. He grasped on to Sherlock's shirt with two tiny fists, crying helplessly.

"What?" Sherlock asked worriedly. "Hamish, it's all right. It's just water." The detective dipped his hand into the warm water and turned Hamish around so he could see. He made to move Hamish into the water again. Though Hamish didn't start screaming, silent tears were rolling down his cheeks as he clutched to Sherlock's hands, which were wrapped firmly around Hamish's middle.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock said sadly, knowing this fear had undoubtedly come from something at the orphanage. "I promise, Hamish. I have you." He looked right into the little boy's eyes, and gave a reassuring nod before lowering him into the water.

The water almost instantly turned a murky color from all the dirt that came off of Hamish's tiny body. Seeing the water turn brown around him, Hamish began to cry again. Sherlock hurriedly got a washcloth and wiped away all the bits of dirt and grime still on Hamish's body. He drained the water, and then re-filled it quickly with more warm water.

Hamish still clung to his father's hands, but when the water didn't become murky again, he calmed down considerably.

Sherlock sighed in relief and, keeping one hand still around Hamish's middle, reached around and grabbed the soap and began to clean the little boy. Hamish became very amused with all the bubbles that soon filled the bathtub. Smiling, Sherlock scooped some of the suds into his hand and placed a little pile of them upon Hamish's wet curls. The little boy began giggling, and took some bubbles in his own hand and tried to reach towards Sherlock's face. Sherlock leaned in towards Hamish so as to give him easier access.

The little boy carefully placed a little pile of bubbles on Sherlock's nose. "Da…" he sighed. Once again, Sherlock felt that warm feeling spread throughout his chest, and he couldn't help but to smile at the little boy in front of him – his son.

Sherlock finished washing Hamish then gave the little boy a few minutes to play with all of the bath toys John had gotten.

After getting Hamish out of the bath, and drying him off, Sherlock walked into the kitchen with Hamish clothed in just a towel. He grabbed some nappies, and wipes and left the kitchen, sitting down on the ground where he had earlier. The garment was still lying on the ground.

Sherlock put Hamish's nappy on (much less crooked this time) and then put the little onesie on. Hamish stuck out his bottom lip, and took the soft fabric between his index finger and thumb, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. It occurred to Sherlock that the little boy had probably never had nice, soft, clean clothes to wear. The thought made him sad. He scooped Hamish up, receiving a startled cry from the boy, and pulled him into a hug.

The hug was lasting too long for Hamish, apparently, because he began to fidget in Sherlock's arms, eventually pulling his arms out and tapping on Sherlock's chest lightly. Sherlock peered down at Hamish to see the little boy frowning slightly and pointing at his stomach.

"Ah. I see." Sherlock stood up and carried Hamish into the kitchen. He made a bottle just as John had showed him, and checked the temperature by flicking it on his wrist, as John had said. He fed Hamish, and took notice of the way the little boy fought to keep his eyes open.

When he finished the bottle, Sherlock gently picked up the sleepy boy, cradling him in arms and walked into his room. He had debated about putting together the cot, but decided he would just let Hamish sleep in his bed.

Carefully, he set the now-sleeping boy in his bed. Sherlock pulled the duvet up slightly around the tiny boy, who was now fast asleep, and placed several pillows around him so he wouldn't roll off the bed.

As he made for the door, Hamish gave a content little sigh. Sherlock looked back at the little boy, and felt that same warmth spread throughout his chest.

_What is that? _Sherlock thought, now frustrated that he couldn't understand what he was feeling.

The room was silent. All that could be heard were the tiny breaths Hamish was taking.

Not really knowing what he was doing, Sherlock slowly crept over to his bed, and peered past the pillows to see a very content-looking Hamish with a small smile on his face.

At the sight, Sherlock couldn't help but smile himself, and without thinking, he bent over and lightly kissed the little boy on his dark curls.

"I love you, Hamish," he murmured. That same warm feeling spread throughout him, again. _Oh, _he thought. _Now I understand. _Sherlock smiled more at the prospect of feeling love – more love than he could have ever though possible – for this little being asleep. His son… His son…

Sherlock moved some of Hamish's auburn curls out of his now clean face, and then left the room, and silently shut the door, that small smile never leaving his face.


	5. Chapter Five: Nightmares

Chapter Five: Nightmares

Just as Sherlock shut the door to his bedroom, he heard a quiet knock from downstairs. He opened the door to find a very nicely dressed man holding a large envelope.

"Delivery for Sherlock Holmes," the man said.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, taking the envelope from the man's hands. He shut the door and walked back up the stairs, pulling a stack of papers out of the large envelope. Papers in hand, he plopped down on the couch and began reading.

Sherlock read and re-read the file on Hamish for several hours, becoming more and more angered every time.

Hamish was not even 16 months old yet as Sherlock had previously thought; Hamish was only 12 months old; a mere year. He was abandoned at the orphanage when we was just days old. That meant he had spent the entirety of his little, innocent life at that horrible orphanage.

There had been evidence of physical abuse; Mycroft had found medical records. Hamish had been brought into surgery one time because he had gotten ill. While there, the doctor noticed bruises on the child's face. When the doctor inquired about what had happen, whoever was with him replied that Hamish had just fallen over and hit his head in doing so. But when the little boy was examined further, he was found to have bruises on his arms and legs.

Sherlock was infuriated. Mycroft had managed to find out that the abusers were both the orphanage workers as well as kids in the orphanage. Sherlock felt an incredible amount of anger boiling in his blood for the supposed 'caretakers' at the orphanage, not only because they had hurt the beautiful little boy sleeping in the room across from him, but because they had also allowed _others_ to hurt him as well.

Sherlock threw the papers down, and tried to calm himself._ It's okay now. He's here with John and me, and he'll be much better. We can show him that he's safe and always will be... It's all going to be okay, _Sherlock kept telling himself.

He picked up the file, crumpled up the pages that spoke of Hamish's abuse, and threw them as far away as he could; the words were now permanently burned into his brain, and he didn't need to become more and more angered each time he read those pages, anyway.

Sherlock pulled the rest of the pages out and decided to focus on the happier things in Hamish's tiny file.

Hamish was reported to have been very bright, and have an interest in drawing. _Duly noted, _Sherlock thought. He had yet to speak or form words, but his motor skills were very advanced.

He hadn't been adopted because every time a potential family would try to approach him, Hamish would react the same way he had when Sherlock tried to approach him earlier that day; he would scream and cry and try to run away. All the families who thought about adopting him then decided against it because they didn't want to have to try to 'deal with a child like that.'

Although it made Sherlock terribly sad to think about this happening to Hamish, he was also secretly relieved that he hadn't been adopted; it was strange, but now that he was here, Sherlock couldn't imagine his life without little Hamish in it.

It may have been selfish, but Sherlock was glad that _he_ was the one who had gotten to take Hamish home and love him and care for him.

Sherlock vaguely wondered how Mycroft had gathered all this information; he was sure the orphanage didn't keep this on hand, but he decided he didn't care how Mycroft got it, he was just happy to know everything he could about his son's short past.

Sherlock put the papers down, and thought about all of the good things in that file, deciding to push aside the thoughts of the abuse Hamish suffered.

Just as Sherlock was smiling at the fact that Hamish liked to draw (and did quite often), he heard the little boy stir in his room. The detective remained still and quite and listened for more movement or sounds.

Upon hearing more movement, he stood up and slowly and quietly moved towards his room.

"No, no!" Sherlock heard the cries, and bolted for the door. "Da! No! Nooo! Daaa!"

Sherlock flew open the door and rushed to the bed, pulling the pillows away. Hamish was asleep, but tears were streaming down his scrunched up face. His little arms were flailing around, desperately trying to reach out for Sherlock.

"Daaaa," he cried, his body shaking with the sobs that were coursing through him.

Sherlock hurriedly scooped up Hamish, clutching him to his chest, wrapping his arms protectively around the little body.

"Hamish, it's okay, it's okay, Daddy's here," Sherlock said quickly and in a hushed tone. "What, Hamish, what's wrong?" he asked frantically.

"Nooo," Hamish sobbed pointing a finger in the direction of the wall as he pushed his head against Sherlock's chest as if he was trying to get away from someone. "Ouch, daaa," the little boy sobbed.

Sherlock was about to try to soothe the boy again, still unsure of what was making him so upset, when - just like that - he understood. Hamish was having a nightmare about someone trying to hurt him, like at the orphanage.

"Hamish. Hamish, please wake up," he jostled the little boy ever so slightly; trying to get him to open his eyes and see that he was safe.

"No, no, daa," the little boy protested.

"Hamish you're safe, please open your eyes," Sherlock begged.

Suddenly, with tears still streaming down his face, Hamish jolted awake with a small shudder. Sherlock clutched his small form closer to his chest, trying to calm him down. Almost immediately, Hamish's head turned in the direction he had pointed earlier, fearful that whomever he had seen was going to be chasing him.

When Hamish saw that there was no one there, that no one was going to hurt him, and that he was safe, he visibly relaxed in Sherlock's arms, but was still crying as he tried to calm down his breath coming in short, quick bursts, his tiny chest rising and falling quickly.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock murmured sadly. He rubbed soothing circles on Hamish's back, rocking back and forth. The little boy pulled his head away from his father's chest and looked up at Sherlock with watery eyes. He took one of his little hands and reached up towards Sherlock, touching his jaw.

"Da," the little boy said contently as he tried to reach Sherlock's cheek, but still only being able to touch his jaw.

Sherlock closed his eyes and put his large hand over his son's small one on his jaw.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm here. It's all okay now." Sherlock heard Hamish's breaths slowing down, and could feel his little chest begin to breath more normally against him.

Sherlock stood and held Hamish close to him, their hands still together on Sherlock's jaw when Hamish let out a large yawn, his face scrunching up.

"Oh, yes, you're probably still tired, aren't you?" Sherlock whispered quietly.

"Mmm," replied Hamish tiredly, now worn out from all of his crying.

"Okay, then," Sherlock murmured, moving Hamish back towards the bed. Hamish still kept his hand on Sherlock's jaw, and when Sherlock tried to pull the little boy's hand from his face, Hamish replied with a tiny, "No, Da."

"Do you want me to stay in here with you, Hamish?"

"Mmm," the little boy replied sleepily.

Sherlock crawled into the bed, still cuddling Hamish close to him, and moved the pillows to the other side to form a wall.

Hamish looked up at Sherlock sleepily. "Daaaa," he sighed, his voice high and airy.

Sherlock smiled and used his free hand to brush some unruly curls from Hamish's face. The little boy smiled slightly and reached up trying to do the same. Seeing how Hamish couldn't quite reach him, Sherlock rolled onto his back, and pulled the little boy onto his chest, scooting his tiny body close to his face.

Smiling sleepily, Hamish crawled up to his father's face, and tried to push away the dark curls. Sherlock chuckled lightly as he felt Hamish's hand fall away from his hair and onto his cheek.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed, as he fell asleep on Sherlock's chest, one hand clutching a fistful of Sherlock's shirt, the other now on Sherlock's cheek.

Though he never imagined himself ever being in a situation even remotely similar to the one he found himself in now, Sherlock enjoyed the feeling of having his son breathing steadily on his chest. He loved how his little, chubby hand still rested on his face.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock moved his hand onto Hamish's back, and, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Hamish's small chest, drifted off to sleep…


	6. Chapter Six: Day One At 221B

**Hello readers! I figured I would just post this chapter today too, because Chapter Five was pretty short and this is kind of like a follow-up chapter. Next chapter will be up tomorrow. Thank you all for the wonderful reviews! They encourage me to keep writing! Hope you enjoy! Thanks guys! =) **

* * *

Chapter Six: Day One at 211B

Sherlock was awoken by a stirring by on his chest. Slowly he opened his eyes, still heavy with sleep. He looked at his clock next to him. 7:34 a.m. Then he turned his attention to the stirring child on his chest.

Sleepily, Hamish woke up, and peered up at Sherlock, his eyes droopy with sleep. A small smile spread on his lips as he scooted himself closer to his father's face.

"Mmm, good morning, Hamish," Sherlock said sleepily, a yawn escaping his lips. The sound made little Hamish giggle.

"Daa," he said, still giggling happily. He reached a tiny, chubby hand out and gently prodded at Sherlock's face.

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed contently.

Sherlock was pulled out of his sleepy state by the smell of coffee brewing. He remembered that John had come back late last night.

"Well," he said to Hamish, sitting up, "let's get ready, then, shall we? Oh." Realizing he'd slept in his clothes, Sherlock pulled Hamish into his arms, and walked over to his dresser. He grabbed a clean shirt and his signature pajama bottoms, and then walked back over to the bed. Carefully he laid Hamish on the bed, changed quickly, and scooped the little boy back up again.

"Morning, John," Sherlock said as he walked with Hamish into the kitchen where John had just finished pouring himself a cup of coffee.

"Morning, you two," John said smiling at his flat mate and the cute little boy in his arms.

"Just a moment, John, I'm going to change his nappy and clothes." Sherlock looked around the kitchen, found everything he needed, left the kitchen, laid Hamish down on the ground, and changed his nappy quickly. Sherlock gave a nod and smiled at himself, proud that he'd successfully put on the nappy correctly this time. He grabbed the baby garments he'd set down. _Finally, a practical outfit, _Sherlock thought to himself as he lifted Hamish's little arms up to pull a plain, blue shirt over his arms. Hamish fussed slightly as Sherlock tried to pull the tiny pants over his legs, but once the trousers were on, he stopped fussing, and lifted his arms up to Sherlock.

Sherlock obliged, picking Hamish up and carrying him back into the kitchen where John was sitting at the table, a serious look on his face.

"What's wrong, John?' Sherlock asked asked, as he moved around the kitchen, beginning to prepare a bottle for Hamish.

In response, John lifted up a small pile of papers towards Sherlock. He peered at them, then realized John had been reading Hamish's file papers that had been left in the other room last night. Sherlock noticed John had also gotten the crumpled papers he had thrown across the room the last night.

"This… This is _horrible_!" John muttered darkly. He looked at Hamish who was currently examining the kitchen from his perch on Sherlock's hip, one tiny hand clutching Sherlock's. John smiled sadly at the little boy, who looked so innocent. He turned to Sherlock, whose face mirrored the dark expression on John's face.

"This—I mean how could they—"

"Yes, John," Sherlock interrupted, "I know. Trust me… I know." Both men turned their attention back to the little boy who now peered between the two men, sensing the change of mood. His eyes had become slightly watery. He peered warily at Sherlock as if to see if everything was okay.

In an effort to lighten the mood once again, John smiled at Hamish, gave the little boy a quick impromptu kiss on the cheek (which resulted in a smirk from Sherlock when John blushed profusely), then walked over to Hamish's file and threw the already-crumpled pages in the bin.

"There," John said with an air of finality, nodding at the trash bin. As he did so, Sherlock finished preparing Hamish's bottle. The little boy on his hip, and a bottle in the other hand, he moved to the chair across from the one John had previously occupied. He sat down at the table, moved Hamish to the crook of his arm, and slipped the bottle into his mouth. Almost exactly the way he had yesterday, the little boy tentatively sipped on the bottle, and then, realizing what is was, began hurriedly sucking the milk out of the bottle.

"Poor little guy," John said from across the table. Sherlock just gave a little nod of his head, watching Hamish with fond eyes.

The trio sat in silence as Hamish finished off the bottle, squealing slightly when he realized there was none left.

"Should I make him another one?" Sherlock asked John, taking the now-empty bottle out of Hamish's mouth.

"Let's wait just once more to make sure we're not giving him too much food, too fast, and then, yes, you can give him another."

"Alright. Thank you, John."

Sherlock moved to burp the little boy who grunted to show his displeasure at being moved from his comfy spot, but then relaxed once again.

"Remember, Sherlock, I have to work today, so you'll be alone with Hamish for a while," John reminded the detective.

"Yes, I remember, John, but thank you for reminding me," Sherlock replied sarcastically.

"Okay, okay, no need to be rude, I was just trying to helpful," John said quickly as he got up and reached for his coat.

"Wait, John," Sherlock said, remembering something. "What should we do all day?" He gestured to Hamish, who was now moved back into the crook of Sherlock's arm.

"I don't know. Talk to him, play with him, let him watch TV, maybe take him outside; God knows he probably hasn't seen much of the outside," he added, sadly. "You'll think of something. You're supposed to be a genius, remember," he said with a smile.

"Right," Sherlock said, his eyebrows drawn together. "Thank you, John. Have a good day at surgery. We'll see you when you get home."

"Right. See you." With that, John disappeared down the stairs, and out the front door.

Sherlock turned his head away from the stairs and back at Hamish. Hamish stared back expectantly.

"Well then," Sherlock said, standing up, keeping Hamish in his cradled position. "I say we go outside, then. How's that sound?" he said excitedly. Hamish's sea-green eyes lit up, and the little boy smiled slightly.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sherlock said with a smile. He turned around, looking through the many shopping bags scattered across the kitchen for a jacket for Hamish, as it was rather chilly outside. When he found what he needed, he walked into his room, and made to set Hamish down on the bed so he could change into proper clothes. But he was stopped as Hamish made a little whimpering noise. Instantly Sherlock pulled the little boy back to his chest.

"What? What, Hamish?" he said, frantically, afraid the little boy was hurt.

Hamish shifted around slightly in his father's arms and pointed a chubby finger at the bed.

"No, Da," the little boy said, still pointing at the bed.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed in relief, "you don't want me to leave you alone on the bed, is that it?"

"Mmm," Hamish replied, giving a tiny nod of his head.

Sherlock sat down on the bed, and moved Hamish so he was sitting on his lap, his chubby little legs spread apart slightly.

"Hamish, I'm just going to leave you here for a moment so that I can get dressed. I'm not going to leave, or go anywhere, all right?" Sherlock reassured the little boy in a calming voice. Hamish's eyes had begun to fill with tears, and one silently spilled over.

Sherlock smiled sadly, and lightly brushed away the tear with his thumb. "It's okay, Hamish."

Hamish reached his little hand up and grasped tightly onto Sherlock's thumb; his whole hand could just fit around Sherlock's finger. As if coming to the conclusion that it was okay for Sherlock to get himself dressed, Hamish leaned his head forward so it was resting against Sherlock's chest and sighed, "'Kay, Da."

Sherlock smiled and moved his hand to the back of the little boys head, smoothing down the auburn curls. "Good boy, Hamish. I'll just be a moment." He planted a quick kiss atop the boy's head, then gently moved the boy off his lap and onto the bed next to him. He was careful to scoot Hamish back far enough so that he wouldn't fall of the edge.

Sherlock then quickly got up, smiling at Hamish once again, and changed out of his pajamas and into his signature suit. All the while, Hamish just sat on Sherlock's bed, watching Sherlock intently, making sure he kept his promise to stay.

When Sherlock walked back over, now fully dressed, and picked up Hamish, the little boy smiled widely, apparently at peace now that he was safely back in his father's arms.

"All right," Sherlock said as he put Hamish in his coat and slipped his own on. "I think we're ready. Let's go." Sherlock moved the little boy to his hip, and walked out the front door into the chilly air.

Upon feeling the chilly breeze, Hamish audibly gasped, and turned around quickly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck and collarbone. He shivered in Sherlock's arms.

"Oh, sorry, Hamish," Sherlock said. He quickly moved his own coat around Hamish, giving the boy extra protection from the cold.

Now much warmer, Hamish turned back around, and began taking in his surroundings as Sherlock continued walking down the street, Hamish bobbing slightly in his arms.

Shortly after the walk had begun, the two passed a young woman walking down the street. She had light brown hair, was of medium build and average height. Hamish's gaze shifted to her, and his eyes widened. He let out a small squeal, and quickly turned in Sherlock's arms, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest.

"Daa," he whimpered.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. "What? What is it, Hamish?"

In response, the little boy pointed haphazardly at the passing woman while simultaneously pressing further into Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't understand what was wrong with Hamish, and he couldn't understand what about the passing woman had alarmed him so much. Unable to figure out what was wrong, Sherlock resorted to trying to calm the boy. He bounced gently up and down, and moved a soothing hand up and down Hamish's tiny back. "Shh, it's all right, Hamish. Shh," he soothed as he began walking again.

Hamish just shook his head against Sherlock's chest, and let out a small whimper again. Sherlock, becoming quite worried, turned the little boy around in his arms, and showed him the street.

"See? She's gone. There's no one there, Hamish. It's all okay." Seeing that the woman had disappeared, Hamish relaxed, and leaned his back against Sherlock's chest, but he kept one chubby hand clutching Sherlock's shirt.

The two kept walking down the street again, Sherlock trying to make his way to a nearby park. Soon, though, another woman with light brown hair, of medium build and average height walked past them again. Hamish whimpered, and pointed immediately with his free hand, and then turned back at Sherlock as if to say, "Do you understand now?"

Sherlock still didn't understand what his son was trying to tell him, though, so he wrapped his arms tighter around Hamish, and quickly walked past the woman. Sherlock took notice of how Hamish flinched slightly when she nodded at the two.

This same thing happened two more times; women with brown hair and of average height and build passed by, and Hamish would whimper and point. Suddenly the realization hit him. Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks.

"Hamish," he asked hurriedly, "do those women look like people who hurt you?"

Hearing his name, Hamish turned his head back to look up at his father, his eyebrows drawn together in a confused look.

They had just reached the park. Sherlock hurried over to a nearby bench, and sat down. He turned Hamish in his lap, and held his hands under his armpits so that Hamish was in a standing position. Hamish's hands rested against Sherlock's chest.

"Hamish, did someone who looked like those women," he pointed back at the woman they had just passed, " hurt you?" He pointed at Hamish to help him understand what he was talking about.

Hamish still looked confused. "Ouch?" he said, and pointed to himself. Sherlock's eyes widened slightly. "Yes, yes, Hamish. Ouch?" he pointed at Hamish again.

Hamish nodded; the dark curls on his head bounced slightly. "Ouch. Ouch, Da'." He point at himself again.

"Oh, Hamish, I'm so sorry!" Sherlock cried, clutching the little boy to his chest. He felt horribly guilty; he'd terrified Hamish several times making him fearful that he was going to get hurt again and he didn't even know he was doing! He had just subjected his son to fear, and felt such a level of guilt; he didn't know when it would subside.

Tears threatened to fall from his eyes. He felt a single, hot bead of water fall from his eye and onto his cheek.

Hamish, though surprised by the sudden embrace, and not understanding why he had received it, leaned into to Sherlock's hug, enjoying the contact. Sherlock sniffled, trying to hide the fact that he was crying. Hearing the strange noise his father had just made, Hamish pulled his head away from Sherlock's chest, and looked up at his face.

The little boy's eyes widened as he saw the tear sliding down his father's face.

"Da?" he asked worriedly. "Da 'kay?" Sherlock looked back down at Hamish whose green eyes were filled with concern. He chuckled slightly, sniffling again. "Yes, Hamish, I'm okay, I promise. Thank you."

Not convinced, Hamish moved his hands onto Sherlock's shoulders and pulled himself up further so the top of his head just reached above Sherlock's jaw. Satisfied with his position, he took his right hand, and slowly moved it to his father's face. Very gently, Hamish took his small fingers, and brushed them over his father's face, wiping away the tear, just as Sherlock had done to him earlier. He looked into Sherlock's steele-grey eyes, and gave a small smile. He brushed his hand again over the wet spot on Sherlock's face where the tear had fallen. He let his hand stop in the hollow just below his father's cheekbone. His fingers curled slightly as he tried to hold himself up. He looked back into Sherlock's eyes.

"'Kay, Da'," smiled Hamish, proud he'd fixed his father's sadness.

Sherlock chuckled, and smiled widely. He moved his hand to cover Hamish's, and gently kissed the little fingers that had wiped away his tear.

"Yes, Hamish," he whispered, "I'm all better now."

"Da' 'etter!" Hamish repeated triumphantly.

Sherlock nodded his head, before realizing that Hamish had just said another word. He jumped up, swinging Hamish around in the air.

"Oh, Hamish! You just said a new word, very, very good! You're so clever!" he praised. Hamish giggled happily; proud of the praise he was receiving.

"Come on then, Hamish! Let's go play, shall we?" Sherlock said happily, pulling a giggling Hamish onto his hip, the sadness now forgotten.


	7. Chapter Seven: TV

**Hello readers! Thank you all for the wonderful feedback I've been getting on this, it really means a lot! So, the other chapters have been kind of short, so I decided to make this one longer for you. I hope you enjoy it! Thanks so much guys, have a great week! =)**

Chapter Seven: TV

"Come on then, Hamish! Let's go play, shall we?" Sherlock said happily, pulling a giggling Hamish onto his hip, the sadness now forgotten.

The detective walked over to the equipment made for very young children. It consisted of some swings with seats, a very tiny slide, and a really tiny playset. Sherlock stopped in front and looked at Hamish. A small smile played on his lips, as he watched Hamish's eyes widen at the items in front of him. He followed Hamish's gaze to see that he was staring at the swings.

"Swings it is then," Sherlock said with a slight nod of his head. He made his way to the closest swing. He moved Hamish out of his grip and placed the little boy in the swing. As he began to back away, though, Hamish called out frantically, "Da!" He reached his chubby arms out for Sherlock, grabbing hold of the sleeve of Sherlock's coat.

Sherlock turned around and chuckled slightly. "All right, then. I'll stay right here. You can take my hands." He moved back so he was close to Hamish, and stuck his hands out. Hamish eagerly reached out and grabbed ahold of his father's hands. Each tiny hand clutched onto one of Sherlock's fingers.

Wrapping his hands around his sons incredibly small ones, Sherlock began to very gently rock Hamish back and forth, noting that he _was_ still quite small, though Hamish didn't seem to mind the gently rocking, in fact he seemed to be enjoying himself, a large smile on his face as he giggled happily.

Sherlock couldn't help but join in his son's happiness, and a quiet laugh escaped his lips as he continued rocking Hamish back and forth.

Hamish's eyes began to wander around the playground, and when he saw the tiny slide, he shook Sherlock's hands slightly and pulled one free to point at the slide. Understanding, Sherlock stopped the swing, and pulled Hamish out.

He carried Hamish over to the incredibly small slide and set Hamish at the top. Seeing the very alarmed look on his face at being so high up, Sherlock firmly wrapped his hands around Hamish's middle, and smiled reassuringly, as he moved to the bottom of the slide; it was so small, Sherlock could squat at the bottom and keep a firm hold of Hamish simultaneously.

When Hamish didn't move, Sherlock pulled slightly on his stomach, and gently slid the little boy down the slide, Hamish squealing the whole way down, a terrified look on his face.

Once at the bottom, Hamish immediately clung to his father, shaking slightly. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle lightly under his breath. Grasping fistfuls of Sherlock's shirt, Hamish looked back and scowled at the slide, while shaking his head.

"No. No, Da'," he said firmly.

Sherlock's smile widened. "Okay. No more slide. Got it." Still scowling at the slide, Hamish looked back at the swing, and, forgetting his anger at the slide, pointed towards it enthusiastically.

Obliging, Sherlock walked back towards the swings, and gently placed Hamish back in. Again, the little boy reached out for Sherlock's hands. A warm smile on his face, the detective reached out, and Hamish grasped each hand on a finger again. Sherlock subconsciously wrapped his fingers around his son's tiny hands and began gently rocking once more.

Now that his excitement had worn off slightly, Hamish's eyes began to loll around as the rhythmic rocking continued. Seeing this, Sherlock realized that they'd been gone for about 35 minutes, and that Hamish would need a nap and then a bottle when he woke up.

"Alright, Hamish, let's head home, hmm?" Sherlock asked rhetorically. He gently lifted the now-almost-limp Hamish out of the swing, and cradled him close to his chest. Hamish let out a tiny shiver as he began to drift off into sleep. Sherlock buttoned Hamish's coat, tucked his tiny legs into his own coat, and cradled the little boy's head in the crook of his arm as he made to leave the park and head home.

"I love you, Hamish," Sherlock whispered quietly as he moved a stray curl off of the little boy's head. The boy's eyes fluttered slightly as he sighed a content, "Mmm," before drifting off into sleep.

Sherlock spent the rest of the walk home reveling in the small being he had in his arms. As Hamish sighed in his arms, Sherlock felt that same warmth spread through his chest.

Sherlock smiled as he walked up the steps to 221B. He unlocked the door and walked in, allowing the warmth to envelope his body. Carefully, he walked up the steps to the flat, and then shrugged off his coat, trying not to wake up the still-sleeping Hamish against his chest.

After his coat was successfully discarded, Sherlock made his way towards his room, swung open the door, and moved to place Hamish on his bed, still having forgotten to put the cot together.

Very gently, he laid Hamish down on his bed, and pulled the covers up over his tiny body. He pulled the pillows back over, making two walls on either side of the baby's sleeping form.

Once he was done, Sherlock placed his hand on Hamish's head, amazed that his entire hand was bigger than his son's head. He smiled fondly at the thought, and leaned in to place a light kiss to Hamish's temple. As he did so, he noticed something he hadn't yet – Hamish's sweet smell. He smelled oddly new and lightly of baby formula. Sherlock inhaled lightly, the warmth once again spreading to his chest. His lips turned upward as he brushed the curls away from Hamish's head and a small sigh escaped from his small lips.

"I love you, Hamish," the detective murmured.

Leaving his hand lightly on Hamish's auburn curls, Sherlock just stood and listened to the gentle breathing of his son before silently slipping through the door, his lips still turned up in a smile, leaving his son to sleep peacefully.

* * *

While Hamish was taking a nap in his room, Sherlock decided to finally put the cot together. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, Sherlock pulled the box over to him, and dumped it open, scattering pieces all over the floor.

He raked through all of the contents, discarding the instructions along the way. He randomly picked up a piece, and began to try and build the cot.

* * *

Thirty-two minutes later, a very frustrated and flushed-looking Sherlock sat on the floor, the discarded instructions now clutched in his hand.

"Bloody hell!" he exclaimed. "No! That piece does _not_ fit there, trust me I've tried!" he hissed at the crumpled paper in his hand.

He threw the paper down, then looked at it, the instructions now at a different angle, and flushed red again. "Oh," he muttered, picking up the paper, and turning the piece in his right hand slightly. It popped into place.

* * *

Ten minutes later the cot was successfully finished. Sherlock moved it by the window, and gave a proud nod at his work.

He was just about to pull out his phone to tell John of his achievement when a small whimper came from his room. Realizing Hamish was probably having another nightmare, Sherlock dashed towards his room, already talking, hoping the sound of his voice would calm to frightened boy.

"Shh, Hamish, I'm here, I'm here," he murmured as he entered the room, and quickly picked up Hamish. A single tear escaped the little boy's scrunched eyes as his breath quickened.

"No, no, no, Hamish, it's just a dream, wake up." Sherlock bounced the little boy slightly as he let out another whimper.

Hamish started awake, eyes wide with fear. Upon realizing he was safely in his father's arms, the little boy leaned forward, trying to calm himself. His head gently bumped against Sherlock's chest.

Relieved that Hamish had calmed down so quickly this time, Sherlock gently bounced the little boy, his hand subconsciously rubbing circles on Hamish's back as the little boy clutched onto Sherlock's arm.

"Daa," he sighed into Sherlock's shirt.

"Yes, Hamish," Sherlock whispered quietly, his deep baritone voice filling the silent room, "I'm here."

He walked out of his room, still bouncing Hamish as the little boy's breathing slowly returned to normal.

Sherlock quickly changed Hamish's nappy, and pulled up his trousers, but seeing how warm he was, decided to leave his shirt off until he cooled down a little.

After discarding the soiled nappy, Sherlock picked Hamish up again, and sat down in his chair. Sherlock had never noticed how truly smooth and soft Hamish's skin was. As he sat Hamish down on his lap, and placed his hands around his son's middle, he noticed how rough, and marred by life his hands seemed against Hamish's stomach, which was smooth, soft, and untouched by life. Sherlock couldn't help but smile to himself.

He noticed Hamish curiously eyeing the remote control that was sitting on the arm of the chair.

"Would you like to see this?" he asked Hamish, who turned his attention to his father, still looking curious.

"I'll take that as a yes," Sherlock chuckled, grabbing the remote and handing it gently to Hamish. When Sherlock let go of the remote, though, it fell down immediately, Hamish's little arms not strong enough to hold it up. As the remote fell on the baby's legs, he let out a grunt of displeasure, his bottom lip sticking out slightly.

He turned around to his father, an expectant look on his face. Sherlock grabbed the remote and handed it to Hamish. This time, though, he kept hold of it.

With his bottom lip sticking out the way it had been when Sherlock first met him, Hamish carefully examined the remote in his hands. He spun it around and turned it upside down. Carefully, he touched his hand to the smooth surface on the back, spreading his chubby fingers out, and moving them up and down. He smiled slightly, and turned briefly to Sherlock, who smiled encouragingly, then the little boy turned his attention back to the remote.

He flipped it over (with the help of Sherlock) and noticed the many buttons for the first time. His eyes widened at all of them. He turned back to Sherlock.

"Da?" he asked, pointing at the buttons.

"You click them, Hamish," Sherlock replied happily. "See? Let me show you." Sherlock took one of Hamish's tiny hands in his own, and, much like they had on their first day together, Sherlock guided Hamish's chubby fingers until they pushed down one of the keys.

Hamish's eyes widened in wonder as his finger pressed down the button. He looked excitedly between his father and the remote. Smiling, Sherlock moved the little boy's hand to another button and pressed down.

Hamish began pressing down every button he could, gigging and smiling widely as he did so. He pressed down quickly on the power button, and jumped slightly as something popped to life that he had not seen yet – the television. Hamish started at the loud noise the TV started making, squeezing his eyes shut. Quickly he scooted away from it, backing up into Sherlock's stomach, turning around, and standing up, draping his chubby arms over Sherlock's shoulders.

Sherlock laughed lightly, pulling the remote from Hamish's hands, and wrapping his free hand protectively around Hamish's bare back.

"Shh," he chuckled, "Hamish, it's all right, it's just the television." Sherlock quickly changed the channel to a children's network and turned the volume down. He stood up, walked over the television, and turned Hamish around in his arms.

Cautiously, Hamish opened his eyes. With the loud, frightening noise now gone, and friendly-looking, animated characters now on the screen, Hamish became entranced by the television. His eyes widened, and he leaned slightly away from Sherlock towards the screen.

Seeing Hamish's wonder at the screen, Sherlock moved slightly closer so Hamish could touch it. Cautiously, Hamish reached forward with one hand. His other chubby hand moved to Sherlock's face, resting against the detective's lips. Sherlock smiled under Hamish's touch, his lips turning up under Hamish's tiny fingers.

Amazement in his eyes, the little boy turned around to his father, his hand sliding down the screen slightly as he did so.

"Da'," Hamish declared quietly. He tapped the television with his tiny fingers, his fingernails making a light 'tapping' noise against the surface. Silently, Sherlock moved his hand onto the screen. Smiling, Hamish turned his attention back to the TV. Slowly, he moved his hand towards it, gently placing it on top of Sherlock's.

Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat again, as Hamish lightly pressed his small hand against the back of his much larger one. His face now serious, and tender, Sherlock turned and gazed at Hamish, whose attention was still on the television, his eyes wide and bright with utter wonder. Sherlock looked fondly at Hamish's incredibly small hand resting on his own. This tiny being in his arms – whose impossibly small hand was on his own right now – was his son. The realization still made Sherlock's chest flood with warmth as he smiled tenderly at Hamish.

Gently, Sherlock pulled his hand off the TV screen, taking Hamish's along with it, though the little boy was so entranced by the show, he barely noticed. Sherlock backed up to his chair, and sat Hamish down on his lap, pulling him back so that Hamish was resting against his stomach. As he turned his attention to the television, he barely noticed as his hand wrapped around Hamish's bare stomach.


	8. Chapter Eight: A Little Conversation

Chapter Eight: A Little Conversation

At some point while Hamish and Sherlock were watching cartoons on the television, the little boy pointed at his stomach, a slight frown on his face, prompting Sherlock to quickly make a bottle.

Sherlock carried Hamish back in from the kitchen, bottle in hand, and plopped down on his chair. He placed Hamish on his lap, and then scooted the small form back, so that he was once again leaning against Sherlock's stomach. Situated, Sherlock then wrapped one hand around the little boy's belly, and used the other to bring the bottle to Hamish's mouth.

Hamish sucked happily at the formula, relaxing into Sherlock as the two continued to watch the cartoons, Sherlock occasionally rolling his eyes at the ridiculousness of the shows, but always smiling again at the look of wonder in Hamish's eyes.

As Hamish drank the last of the milk in the bottle, he sighed contently, letting his head fall back and gently rest on Sherlock's chest.

The detective barely noticed as he began to play with Hamish's toes; subconsciously counting them and moving them back and forth as he watched the cartoons. It wasn't until he felt Hamish giggle against his stomach that he even noticed he had been playing with his tiny toes.

"Daaa," the little boy giggled happily, his toes curling slightly as Sherlock began to playfully tickle the bottom of his foot. He stood up on Sherlock's lap, and turned around, trying to crawl up Sherlock's abdomen to escape the tickling.

Sherlock laughed heartily at Hamish's efforts. He scooped up the boy, lifting him into the air, and ran over to the couch where he laid the squealing Hamish down and began blow raspberries on his stomach, not caring how foolish, or how out of character it was for him.

Hamish giggled and squealed happily as Sherlock tickled the little boy's bare stomach and his toes and behind his ears and under his arms until both were gasping for breath.

Sherlock fell onto the couch, pulling a still-laughing Hamish onto his chest. The little boy bounced lightly on Sherlock's chest as he laughed.

Eventually the two calmed down, catching their breath. In the background, the cartoon could be lightly heard.

Tired from all the laughing, Hamish collapsed onto Sherlock's chest, one tiny fist clutching the collar of Sherlock's white button-up. Gently, the other hand began to play with one of the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, his tiny, curled finger delicately tracing it and spinning around it. Sherlock grinned tenderly as Hamish continued to play with the same button, his attention now turned back to the television, his fist still clutching his father's collar. Moving his hand to rest on Hamish's smooth back, Sherlock stared at his son, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

* * *

When John returned home from work, and got no response after calling out, "I got takeaway! Hope Chinese is okay!" he began to panic again and scurried up the stairs.

"Hello, John!" Sherlock called from his spot on the couch as he heard John hurrying up the stairs. "And yes, Chinese sounds lovely, thank you. Come on, Hamish," he grunted, sitting up, and receiving a small, unhappy grunt from Hamish and a disapproving look, having been moved from his comfortable position.

"Good," John smiled, placing the food on the already too-full table.

"John, could you please make Hamish a bottle while I check his nappy, quickly?"

"Sure," John replied, trying to clear off the table.

* * *

The three ate dinner slowly, John sharing anything interesting that had happened at surgery that day, then Sherlock briefly summing up his day with Hamish.

"Well, sound like you two had a busy day," John cooed towards Hamish, who looked at him warily from behind the bottle, still unsure if he could trust the doctor. John chuckled lightly, reaching for a second helping of Chinese.

Sherlock hadn't even started his meal yet, the plate of food sitting untouched in front of him.

Hamish downed the rest of the formula, and then, once the bottle was removed from his mouth, he reached two chubby arms up to Sherlock, who picked Hamish up and tried to lay him over his shoulder, but he was met with a very determined, "No, Da'."

Confused, Sherlock moved Hamish back down so he was in a standing position on his lap. Hamish, with one hand firmly against Sherlock's chest turned around slightly, and made to reach for Sherlock's plate of food.

Sherlock tried to move the plate away quickly, but Hamish had already picked up a noodle and now held it precariously in his chubby fingers.

"No, Hamish. I'm sorry but you can't have that. It's Daddy's food," Sherlock said, reaching to take the noodle away.

"No, Da'." Hamish said again, his bottom lip sticking out slightly. Sherlock was just about to continue his argument further when Hamish moved his little hand forward to Sherlock's now-closed mouth. Gently, he tapped the noodle between his chubby fingers against Sherlock's lips, a persistent look on his face. When Sherlock didn't open his mouth, still slightly confused as to what Hamish was trying to do, Hamish sighed, exasperated. Trying desperately not to drop the noodle, he haphazardly moved his other hand up to Sherlock's face, and tried to pry his father's lips open. His small fingernails brushed against the skin of Sherlock's lips.

When Sherlock helped, opening his lips slightly, Hamish tried to place the noddle inside his father's mouth.

"Da!" he said triumphantly.

"Ohhh," Sherlock chuckled. "Yes. Thank you very much, Hamish." The little boy smiled, and seemed to become happier at the small thank you from his father.

"Da' 'etter?" he asked, concerned, the small smile, still on his face, though.

"Yes, Hamish," Sherlock smiled. "I'm much better now, thank you."

Hamish reached back to the plate again, and carefully picked up another noodle. John sat, smiling, as Hamish, bottom lip protruding slightly, watched his hand intently as he moved it back to his father's mouth. Now understanding what Hamish was doing, Sherlock opened his mouth and allowed the little boy to gently place the noodle in, a triumphant smile replacing his concentrated features.

That's how dinner went for the rest of the night; Sherlock would eat a few forkfuls of Chinese by himself, and then when Hamish decided that Sherlock needed to eat more, he would pick up one noodle at a time, and very gently pry his father's lips open to delicately place the noodle in his mouth. The smile barely left the detectives lips that night as John watched on happily as the little boy fed his father, one noodle at a time.

* * *

Dinner went by very, very slowly, as Hamish insisted on feeding Sherlock each noodle, one by one. And Sherlock let him; smiling more each time Hamish delicately placed the food in his mouth.

John watched the whole endeavor, smiling fondly at the concentrated look on the little boy's face.

As Hamish turned back to grab one of the last noodles, Sherlock glanced at the clock. 8:54. _Hamish should be getting tired soon_, he thought to himself. Right on cue, Hamish let out a small yawn, his face scrunching slightly. The little sigh that escaped his lips after, made both Sherlock and John smile fondly at the little boy who had just turned back around to place another noodle in his father's mouth, determined to finish what he'd started.

When Hamish wasn't looking, Sherlock quickly scooped the rest of the noodles onto his fork, and ate them hurriedly, trying to speed up the process of getting the little boy to bed. Hamish turned around, reaching for another noodle, but when his little fingers felt none, he quickly spun around, his head moving from side to side as he searched the table looking for the last few noodles, his curls bobbing slightly.

Sherlock chuckled as he lifted Hamish up by his armpits, situating him on his lean chest. "It's okay, Hamish, I ate the last ones myself, seeing as it's time for you to go to bed. "

Hamish opened his mouth to say something, but was stopped as another yawn, much bigger this time, impaired him from doing so. His eyelids fell slightly as the yawn ended. Tiredness sweeping over him, the little boy leaned into Sherlock, his head resting just below Sherlock's shoulder. He reached up and clutched a little fistful of his father's shirt.

"Come on, Hamish. Time for bed." Sherlock began walking towards his door when he remembered that he'd put together the cot. "John?" he turned back to his flat mate who was cleaning up the kitchen. "Could you please carry Hamish's cot into my room?"

John looked past Sherlock and saw the finished cot for the first time.

"Wow," he said sarcastically, walking over to the cot, "you actually did something _on your own_ without being forced to first? I'm very impressed." John bustled past the two, cot in hand, and a smirk on his face. He placed the cot to the left of Sherlock's bed. When he came back out, Sherlock had just finished up putting a clean nappy on Hamish. The detective stood up.

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed. He turned back to John. "I'll probably stay in here with Hamish for a little while, so good night, John."

"All right. 'Night, Sherlock. And goodnight, Hame." He waved at the little boy who tiredly moved his arm to wave back. John chuckled slightly at the little boy's efforts and at the eye rolling Sherlock gave him at Hamish's new nickname.

Shutting the door behind him, Sherlock moved around the bed and gently placed Hamish in the cot. The little boy looked up at his father with tired eyes.

"Good night, Hamish," Sherlock murmured.

"Nuuu... nii… Nigh', Da'," Hamish sighed quietly. Sherlock smiled gently. He reached into the cot, and gently stroked his thumb down Hamish's incredibly smooth cheek. The little boy leaned into Sherlock's hand, closing his eyes briefly.

"Mmm," he hummed. Sherlock crawled into bed and scooted all the way to the left so that he could keep his hand in the cot.

Sherlock sat like that, laying his hand lightly on Hamish's back, waiting for him to fall asleep. But much later, when both father and son were still wide-awake, Sherlock sat up, leaning over to look at Hamish, who stared back with large, green eyes, an expectant - yet tired - look on his face.

"Well, what seems to be the problem, Hamish?" Sherlock asked lightly. He got off the bed, lifted Hamish out of the cot, and pulled him close to his chest. "Can't sleep, hmm? Well... how about a little conversation? That's the best thing for sleepless nights," he murmured quietly. Sherlock began to gently rub circles on Hamish's back as he continued talking. "Well I suppose I should start out by apologizing for the craziness you've been brought in to. I know you don't know it yet, but my life - well, our life, now - can get kind of chaotic sometimes... You'll have to excuse, that I'm afraid. But other than that, it's pretty nice." Sherlock's deep, baritone voice filled the otherwise-silent room. He began walking around the small space, silently pacing back and forth.

Hamish watched his father as he spoke, soothed by his voice and the gentle pacing. He blinked slowly, and leaned in closer, raising his little arms up as he did so. Sherlock scooted Hamish upwards slightly. Tiredly, the little boy wrapped his arms around his father's neck, pressing his tiny head just above the detective's collarbone. A small sigh escaped his lips as he leaned into Sherlock, resting his head heavily against the base of his father's neck, another wave of tiredness sweeping over him. Tenderly, he grabbed onto the back of Sherlock's collar with one hand, as the other curled into a tiny fist, resting against the skin on the back of his father's neck.

Sherlock continued talking, noticing how Hamish's eyelids started to flutter lightly. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I suppose you'll be meeting other people soon enough. People like Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and my brother, unfortunately..."

Sherlock turned his gaze to Hamish.

Upon hearing his father stop, Hamish tiredly peered up at Sherlock's face. His eyebrows pulled together ever so slightly, and, using his last bit of strength, he reached up with the hand that was not currently wrapped around Sherlock's collar. Very gently, little Hamish touched his father's lips, tapping lightly with one finger, silently asking his father to continue.

As Hamish's little finger continued to tap lightly on his lips, Sherlock felt a tremendous amount of love swell in his chest. He stopped pacing, and began gently swaying back and forth. Granting Hamish's request, Sherlock began to speak again, whispering so quietly that only Hamish could hear.

"I'm going to be here for you, Hamish. Always... Always. I know what it's like to be alone... To _feel_ like you're alone... Unloved... And no one, _no one_, should ever feel like that. No one should ever be alone. I'll be here for you, Hamish. Always. I promise... I promise."

At his father's promise, Hamish silently fell asleep. The little boy's hand gently fell from Sherlock's lips, brushing over them lightly, until it came to rest just below the hollow on the detective's cheek.

"Always..." A hot tear slid down Sherlock's cheek, and landed on the sleeping boy's hand. "Always..."

Gently, Sherlock turned his head, trying not to move Hamish's hand, and pressed a tender kiss to the little boy's forehead. He felt another tear slip from his eyes... With incredible tenderness, Sherlock lifted Hamish's hand from his face, and planted a gentle kiss to the incredibly tiny fingers. In his sleep, Hamish silently wrapped his tiny hand around his father's thumb, and let out a gentle sigh, his finger's tightening ever so slightly.

Sherlock stayed that way the whole night, gently swaying, tenderly holding the little boy close to him as he slept soundly in the detective's embrace. Sherlock never let go of his son's tiny hand, keeping it safely wrapped in his own...

Hamish slept peacefully that night, resting gently against Sherlock, his father's comfort chasing away all the nightmares...


	9. Chapter Nine: A Birthday

A Birthday

The next few days at 221B went by rather smoothly. John and Sherlock had managed to put away the many, many bags of shopping, and found a home for each item. They had gotten a few additional items, as well, such as books and coloring utensils for Hamish.

The flat mates had also baby-proofed the flat; they had cleaned up and gotten rid of (most of) Sherlock's experiments, covered all of the electrical outlets, gotten a gate for the stairs, and made sure anything and everything that could potentially cause harm to little Hamish had been discarded or taken care of.

John took a few days off work to help Sherlock start to get a schedule in place, as well as to get Hamish acquainted with him and more used to him being around.

Over those few days, Mrs. Hudson had returned from holiday, to be met by a very sheepish-looking Sherlock. At first, Mrs. Hudson was quite furious with Sherlock (and John for letting him do such a thing), but as she saw the little boy for the first time, she became much more keen on the idea of having Hamish around, and agreed to the let the little boy stay on the one condition that she wouldn't have to babysit _too_ much.

There had been no new leads with the case, and Sherlock was becoming slightly antsy. He was currently pacing across the floor of the living room, twiddling with his fingers, as John sat in his chair reading a newspaper. Hamish was seated on the floor just in front of John's seat, coloring a picture with his new crayons.

Sherlock passed by John, mumbling something unintelligible under his breath. John was becoming more and more on edge by Sherlock's pacing. Hamish was not fazed, though, as all of his attention was currently focused on the drawing in front of him; his bottom lip protruded slightly as he concentrated.

Sherlock passed by again, his robe fluttering slightly as he did so.

"Bloody hell!" John declared, thrusting his paper down onto his lap. Sherlock stopped his pacing at the doctor's outburst and turned to look at John.

"What?" he asked, the agitation clear in his voice.

Upon hearing his father's tone, Hamish briefly peered up from his drawing, but, concluding that there was nothing interesting going on, returned to scribbling clumsily on the paper.

"Could you please stop that pacing?" John asked, exasperated.

"I need something to do, John! I can't stand it!" Sherlock ran his hands through his hair; the tendons popped out as he flipped his hair with much more gusto than was necessary.

"Well," John began, trying to think of something for his flat mate to do. "You could always play with Hamish," he suggested.

With a loud huff, Sherlock fell onto the couch. "I would, _but_—really John, I had hoped your observation skills would be better by now—he's currently preoccupied at the moment." Sherlock gestured lazily towards Hamish, who was still drawing. John rolled his eyes.

"All right. Well… You could… Um…" he trailed off, his eyebrows coming together as he tried to think of an activity to give Sherlock.

"See!" Sherlock threw his hands in the air in exasperation. "_You_ can't even come up with anything!" He pressed his hands over is face as he groaned dramatically. "John, what are we supposed to do if—"

"A birthday!" John shouted triumphantly, and startling Hamish in the process.

Sherlock stopped mid-sentence and turned to stare at John with a look on his face that clearly said, "_Dear god, you have officially lost it, John Watson._"

Seeing the look, John shook his head, and quickly began to explain himself. "No, no, no. For Hamish." Upon hearing his name, and still startled by John's outburst, Hamish forgot his picture and reached his arms towards Sherlock.

"Daaa," he stated. He had started to try and use Sherlock's chair to pull himself up onto his chubby legs. Situated, he turned and looked at Sherlock as John waited for the detective to get up and pick up the little boy. When Sherlock made no effort, but rather just kept staring at his flat mate incredulously, John rolled his eyes, scooped up Hamish and carried him over to the couch, where he sat him down on Sherlock's chest.

He continued explaining as he stepped back slightly.

"It just occurred to me!" he said enthusiastically. "So Hamish just turned one a little while ago, right? And I seriously doubt it was celebrated or even recognized. So we should give him a party of our own! Right here. It could be really fun, and it would give you something to do!" John said cheerfully.

Now understanding John's meaning, Sherlock began to absentmindedly play with Sherlock's hair, contemplating the suggestion.

Over the last few days, Hamish had taken quite a liking to playing with Sherlock's neck and collarbone, gently tracing them with his tiny fingers. He particularly enjoyed tracing the little the "V" that formed just below Sherlock's neck. As he listened to Sherlock and John talk excitedly, the little boy began to subconsciously trace the skin with his tiny fingers.

John couldn't help but smile fondly as he watched Sherlock absentmindedly play with Hamish's hair, and, likewise, watch Hamish play absentmindedly with the gap at the bottom of his father's neck.

"Well," Sherlock began, still contemplating, "I suppose that doesn't sound like a bad idea. It hadn't even occurred to me to celebrate Hamish's first birthday, to be honest. But now that I think about it, it sounds like an excellent idea. Very good, John! Yes! I agree with you, we should throw a tiny party for him."

"Great!" John said. "We should start inviting people. Let's see… There's Mary, Lestrade…" John began to count the people off on his fingers making a mental list of who to notify. He continued, "Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, of course, Mycroft and—no, Sherlock. Don't' roll your eyes at me! Mycroft should be able to see Hamish. I mean, after all, he _is_ his uncle."

"Poor boy," Sherlock muttered under his breath, which received a slight chuckle from John. He continued speaking.

"Well, I think that should do it, then. I'll start contacting everyone." John whipped out his phone, and hurried to the kitchen to begin making calls. Sherlock watched as John left, and then turned his attention back to the little boy sitting on his chest as he noticed that Hamish's finger was no longer moving, but rather just resting against his skin.

"What's the matter Hamish?" Sherlock asked as he saw the confused look on his face. He couldn't help but smile at how precious the little boy looked. Hamish pointed to himself, and then looked into the kitchen, in the direction of John.

"We're going to throw a party for you," Sherlock said excitedly. He stood up of the couch, and began to walk around, gently bouncing Hamish as he went. "That means we're going to celebrate your birthday, which is the day your were born. You're going to meet several new people like Molly, and Lestrade, and unfortunately, my brother." Sherlock's features scrunched slightly as he made a disgusted look when he said his brother's name. Looking back at Hamish, who was clearly overwhelmed by the information Sherlock had just thrown at him, the frown left his face, and was replaced with a smile.

"You'll see in a few days," Sherlock chuckled. Satisfied with this last comment, Hamish leaned forward, resting his head on Sherlock's chest. He took the silky fabric of Sherlock's robe between his fingers and began to tenderly move his fingers across the smooth surface.

* * *

Several days later, the air was practically buzzing with excitement. John, who'd essentially arranged and planned the entire event was very pleased with his work, and excited to celebrate Hamish's first birthday with him.

Sherlock, though excited for Hamish, was slightly anxious when it came to all of the people John had invited being in tiny flat at once; he hoped Hamish wouldn't be overwhelmed by the whole thing.

Hamish had no clue what was going on. He had a sense that something exciting was going to happen, but he didn't know that it had anything to do with himself. Still, though, sensing the change in mood, the little boy had been happy all day, giggling, laughing and smiling much more than he usually did.

Mary was the first to come, arriving slightly early so as to get a little time with John and to meet Hamish; the two had not seen each other yet.

John and Mary laughed as they walked up the steps into the flat. Upon hearing the two, Sherlock, who had been watching television with Hamish, scooped the little boy up, and turned the TV off, much to the chagrin of Hamish.

With Hamish in his arms, Sherlock moved towards the entrance to the flat just as Mary and John, still laughing, reached the top of the stairs.

"Hello, Mary," Sherlock said as cheerfully as he could. Mary smiled back in reply. "This is Hamish. I don't believe you've met him yet." Upon hearing his name, Hamish, who had been looking back over Sherlock's shoulder, willing the TV to turn back on, turned back so he was facing forward. Upon seeing Mary, he instantly snuggled back into Sherlock, gripping onto his father with two tiny hands.

"Hamish, this is Mary. She's John's..." He paused slightly before continuing. "Significant other. She's nice. Would you like to meet her?" Hamish peered at Mary, who smiled warmly at the little boy. Slowly, he gave a tiny nod.

Sherlock began to pass Hamish over to Mary. The little boy allowed it, but made sure to hold on tightly to Sherlock's hand the entire time he was in Mary's arms.

Eventually, Hamish concluded that Mary was nice, and became much more relaxed. After Hamish was no longer frightened of her, Mary passed the little boy back to Sherlock.

"He's a darling," she said, still smiling sweetly at Hamish, who was now back in Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock smiled in reply as John led Mary into the kitchen. Sherlock sauntered back into the living room and plopped down on the couch.

The two continued to watch cartoons until the rest of the guests arrived. First Lestrade, then Mrs. Hudson came upstairs, a rather large chocolate cake in tow. Mycroft arrived next, impeccably dressed as always.

When Molly finally got to the flat, Hamish was drawing on the floor, while Sherlock was looking something up on his phone.

Molly entered the flat, and Hamish turned up to look at her, expecting her to be another nice guest. Upon seeing her, though, Hamish's eyes widened with fear.

"Da!" he screamed. Drawing forgotten, he desperately tried to crawl towards Sherlock as quickly as he could.

Hearing Hamish's cry, Sherlock looked up, concerned. He saw Hamish hurrying towards him, a terrified look on his face. Worried, Sherlock picked the little boy up, and held him close to his chest.

"What Hamish, what's wrong? What is it?" he asked frantically. The little boy was shaking in Sherlock's arms. In response, he pointed towards Molly, who was now frozen at the top of the stairs.

Sherlock understood instantly. Molly was of medium build, medium height, and had light brown hair… To Hamish, she looked like his abuser.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock said sadly. He pulled the little boy to his chest. Still shaking, with tears threatening to spill over, Hamish leaned into Sherlock's embrace, resting his head against his father's chest.

"Hamish, that's Molly. She's not the one who hurt you. And she's not going to hurt you. I promise, I promise. I will never, _ever_ let anyone hurt you…"

Hamish let out a quiet sigh. As he gripped onto Sherlock's shirt.

"Do you understand, Hamish? No one is ever going to hurt you again. You're safe," Sherlock whispered into the little boy's curls.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed in reply, soothed by Sherlock's words, and quickly forgetting his scare with Molly. Sherlock began to rub circles on Hamish's back.

"Shh, it's all okay. Nothing's going to happen." Hamish nodded against Sherlock's chest and looked up. A single tear had fallen down his cheek.

With a sad smile, Sherlock gently brushed the tear away with his thumb.

"There," he murmured, "All better." Hamish let his head rest against Sherlock's hand.

"Mmm," he agreed.

* * *

Hamish had eventually gotten used to Molly, and actually enjoyed her quite a bit once he got past the initial fright. Though he didn't mind being held by everyone else, he preferred being in Sherlock's arms, so that's where he spent most of his time.

The adults sat around and talked – meaning John, Mycroft, Mary, Lestrade, and Molly all talked together, and Sherlock sat off to the side, bouncing Hamish lightly on his knee, playing with the little boy's auburn curls.

When it came time for Hamish to blow out the candle on his cake, the little boy was very excited, practically bouncing in Sherlock's' arms as he bent forward and attempted to blow out the single candle. Chuckling at Hamish's efforts, Sherlock blew slightly at the same time Hamish did and the candle died out.

Very proud of himself, Hamish clapped his hands together, and turned around to look at Sherlock who was beaming with happiness.

Next were presents, which Hamish had received a ridiculous amount of.

Everyone placed all of his or her presents in a big pile on the floor of the sitting room. Sherlock sat down, and set Hamish between his crossed legs. The little boy seemed overwhelmed by the large pile of boxes in front of him, and, at first, had no idea what he was supposed to do. But upon guidance from Sherlock and John, who opened the first present for him, the little boy began to eagerly tear away the wrapping with his chubby hands.

After the many, many, presents had been opened (which ranged from baby garments to stuffed animals to books on parenting), Hamish was worn out from all of the excitement. He slept in Sherlock's arms as everyone continued chatting happily.

By the time Hamish woke up again, it had been suggested by Lestrade that everyone go out for a pint. The other guests, though enjoying themselves, were slightly anxious to be able to do something more 'adult.'

Everyone got their coats, and said goodbye to Hamish, who waved a happy goodbye to everyone as they scurried out the door.

John and Mary left last.

"Bye, Hame. Happy birthday, little man. Hope you had a good time." He pressed a little kiss to Hamish's cheek and turned to leave, holding hands with Mary.

"See you, Sherlock. Be back later." He waved a goodbye.

"Goodbye, John, Mary." Sherlock called after the two as the door shut.

Sherlock turned to Hamish, who was resting on his hip. "Ugh! Finally!" he exclaimed, over-exaggerating the words, which made Hamish laugh. "I thought they'd never leave!" Smiling as Hamish giggled, Sherlock bounced the little boy a few times.

"Well, then, Hamish, what shall we do? Do you want to draw, or play with some of your new toys? We still have a while before you should go to bed, we can do anything."

Hamish thought for a moment, holding onto Sherlock's lapel for balance.

"No," he said decidedly, giving a little nod of his head.

"No? Okay," said Sherlock. He moved over and sat on the couch. "Well what do you want to do? Watch television?" He made to grab the remote, but Hamish reached and lightly held onto his hand.

"No, Da."

"Well then what do you want to do?"

In response, Hamish moved both of his hands to Sherlock's chest and gave a gentle shove. Obeying Hamish's request, Sherlock laid back on the couch, stretching out over it. Hamish gave a satisfied nod of his head as he sat atop Sherlock's stomach.

"Okay," Sherlock said, smiling at Hamish's cute efforts. "Now what?" Hamish scooted forward, and positioned himself so he was sitting as close to Sherlock's face as he could get.

Curious, Sherlock moved his hand and began to play with Hamish's curls again. "What now?"

Hamish stuck his bottom lip out slightly, and reached behind him, trying to grab Sherlock's hand. The detective moved his hand up and let Hamish grab it with his tiny fingers.

Holding Sherlock's hand in both of his, Hamish moved all of his father's fingers away so that only his pointer finger was sticking out. Then, very slowly, he moved Sherlock's hand towards his face, and pointed his hand at his nose.

Confused as to what Hamish was doing, Sherlock stared at Hamish, a quizzical look on his face.

Unfazed by his father's confusion, Hamish then let go of Sherlock's hand, and moved forward, haphazardly placing one hand on Sherlock's cheek, and one against the detective's lips. Trying to balance, he moved one of hands and placed it on top of Sherlock's nose. He tapped lightly a few times.

"Da?" he asked plainly, as if what he'd just done explained everything.

"What, Hamish? That's my nose. You pointed to your nose. Oh! Do you want to know what this is?" Sherlock reached up and gently tapped the tip of Hamish's nose with one long finger.

Giggling, and nodding fervently, happy his father had caught on, Hamish tapped Sherlock's nose again.

"Nose," Sherlock said slowly.

"Nnnnn… No…" Hamish tried to repeat what Sherlock just said.

"Very good try, Hamish, " he said happily. Hamish smiled widely; glad he was getting praise for his efforts.

Next, the little boy moved his hands to each of Sherlock's cheeks.

"Da?" he asked.

"Cheeks. Those are called your cheeks." Once again, Hamish tried to repeat. Sherlock smiled fondly. Hamish, his face now serious in concentration, moved both of his hands up and down Sherlock's cheek, following the sharp line his cheekbones made. Letting go with one hand, Hamish began tracing one of Sherlock's cheeks with his finger. His other hand pushed down lightly on Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock watched as Hamish focused all of his attention to tracing his cheek. Sherlock felt that odd sensation start to make his chest grow warm as he gazed at the wistful look on Hamish's' face. His already-attractive features somehow seem to become even more beautiful as the little boy stared intently at Sherlock's cheek; his hair became slightly darker in the minimal light. His dark green eyes seemed to sparkle and glow. Sherlock noticed for the first time how Hamish's eyes had lines of gold shooting throughout the dark green irises. The sight made Sherlock's breath catch in his throat. He noticed the gentle planes of Hamish's face and how smooth and clear his chubby cheeks were, and he felt a tremendous amount of love swell in his chest.

Hamish stopped tracing and flattened his hand out so that his tiny fingers were splayed across the hollow below Sherlock's cheekbone. Satisfied, Hamish smiled widely; the pensive look replaced by one of sheer joy.

Next, Hamish moved to Sherlock's eyes, gently tracing his eyelids as the detective closed his eyes to allow Hamish to thoroughly examine his eyes. That led Hamish to notice Sherlock's' eyebrows for the first time. He gently traced them, too, running his finger along their shape and then gasped slightly as he realized he must have a pair of eyebrows, as well. Sherlock smiled widely and couldn't help but laugh at the wonder on Hamish's face when he touched his chubby hands to his own forehead and realized he had his own set of eyebrows.

Hamish spent several minutes just moving his hands over his forehead, as if to check and make sure his newly-discovered-eyebrows were not going to leave.

Eventually content, Hamish began to touch the rest of his father's face, curious about what everything was; he gently tapped on Sherlock's ears, and forehead, and hair, and each time the detective would tell Hamish what the body part was and would repeat the name over and over so the little boy could try and repeat it.

Hamish was very excited to learn that his own hair was similar to his father's. He ended up playing with Sherlock's curls for quite a while, a pensive look returning to his sweet features as he twirled a lock of hair between his small fingers. Sherlock was actually enjoying himself. He enjoyed telling Hamish the name of each new body part, and never got tired of the excited look on his son's face when the little boy learned what everything was. Though he never would admit it, Sherlock found the touch of Hamish's tiny fingers against his skin to be incredibly sweet.

Once he got bored with twirling his father's hair between his fingers, Hamish decided it was time to give a thorough examination of Sherlock's hands. He tried to hold them up, but, upon realizing how heavy they were, decided to just let one of Sherlock's large hands rest in his lap.

Once Hamish had positioned everything where he wanted (with a little help from Sherlock), Hamish turned to the detective. He lightly tapped on Sherlock's palm.

"That's my hand, Hamish. Can you say that? Hand."

Looking at Sherlock, Hamish began to try and pronounce the word. "Huu... Haaaa..."

"Hand," the detective repeated slowly.

"Hand!" Hamish squealed triumphantly, and, deciding Sherlock's neck was too far away, he grasped his father's hand tightly and clutched it close to his tiny chest, giving it a tight hug.

"Very good, Hamish!" Sherlock said enthusiastically, and giggling slightly as Hamish grasped tightly to his arm. Hamish let go, ending the hug, and placed it delicately back in his lap.

Then, as he had done so many times before, Hamish turned his attention back to his father's hand, inspecting it. He started with the palm.

The little boy's eyes widened slightly as he saw the lines that patterned the inside of his father's hand. Very carefully, as if he was afraid if he touched or rubbed them too hard they would disappear, Hamish traced each line on the palm of Sherlock's hand, and Sherlock let him, finding Hamish's gentle touch soothing. He closed his eyes as Hamish began to lightly trace the outside of his hand, moving his fingers over Sherlock's knuckles, and giggling slightly at the little gap that was situated below Sherlock's thumb.

"Look, Hamish," said Sherlock, opening his eyes. He flexed his hand, making the tendons pop up under the skin. Hamish let out a quiet "Ohhh," of amazement as he ducked his head closer to Sherlock's hand, and lightly shook it (as best he could), silently telling his father to do it again. Sherlock flexed again, laughing when Hamish quickly drew his head back, his mouth open in what was clearly pure amazement.

He turned to his own tiny hand, and flexed. But when nothing happened, he frowned slightly and turned to Sherlock.

"Da?" he asked scowling, upset that his hand was not doing the same thing as his father's.

Sherlock chuckled. "It's okay, Hamish. Your hands are just much smaller. They'll do that eventually when you get older." When the little boy, clearly not consoled, continued to glare at his tiny fingers, Sherlock reached forward, took Hamish's hand in his own, and pressed a tiny kiss to the back of his fingers. "It's okay that they don't do that, Hamish. They're not supposed to yet. It's perfectly normal." The little boy turned his attention to Sherlock, as he began to gradually lower his hand, the frown fading away at Sherlock's words. "Besides," the detective added, smiling, "I like you just the way you are." He leaned forward, and blew a raspberry against Hamish's neck, launching the little boy into a fit of giggles.

When Hamish finally calmed down, his hand now forgotten, he remembered what he was doing, and thought about what he was going to inquire about next. Coming to a decision, the little boy pointed at his toes.

"Ah. Toes," Sherlock said, still smiling from Hamish's giggling.

He picked Hamish up and placed him in one arm as he leaned forward to take off his socks and shoes. He moved so he was sitting cross-legged, the placed the little boy between the gap in his legs and gently grabbed one of his chubby hands. Moving the fingers so that Hamish was pointing, Sherlock guided his chubby hand and helped him count each of his toes, saying the numbers out loud.

"One, two, three, four five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten." Hamish focused intently on Sherlock's words. Next, the detective moved to count Hamish's own incredibly cute and tiny toes. He counted out loud again as he gently touched Hamish's finger to each toe. "One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."

Hamish seemed amazed as he realized he had the same number of toes as his father. The little boy gasped out loud, and clapped his hands together, smiling widely.

Happy at his son's amazement, Sherlock leaned back, resting his head against the arm of the couch again. Hamish was still beaming and playing with his own toes as Sherlock placed him back on his chest.

Calming down, Hamish began to think about what other things he needed to ask his father about. Remembering suddenly, Hamish tried to take his shirt off, but ended up getting tangled in the fabric.

"Daaa," he whined. Sherlock chuckled as he leaned forward and helped Hamish to pull off his shirt. He tossed the garment on the ground.

Shirt discarded, Hamish leaned over slightly and pointed to his bellybutton, then peered back up at his father expectantly.

"That's called your bellybutton, Hamish." Sherlock reached forward and gently tickled Hamish's bare belly with his fingertips. The little boy giggled, and then returned to the task at hand, which, currently, was to find his father's bellybutton.

Hamish scooted his tiny form back slightly, so he was sitting at the bottom of Sherlock's stomach and looked down, pressing his fingers against Sherlock's belly, expecting to find Sherlock's bellybutton. Upon seeing no such thing, though, the little boy began to panic. He hurriedly looked down at his own bellybutton, as if to check if he'd just imagined what he'd seen. But when he saw and felt it again, he turned back to look at Sherlock, tears filling his eyes.

"No, no, Hamish. Don't cry," the detective chuckled. "It's okay. I have one, too. See?"

He un-tucked his shirt from his trousers, and pulled the fabric up slightly to expose his bellybutton to Hamish.

The little boy let out a loud sigh of relief, and giggled as he began to play with Sherlock's belly. The detective couldn't help but giggle as well at the light tickling sensation.

"Oh!" Sherlock said suddenly. "Hamish, listen to this!" Excitedly, Sherlock undid a few of the buttons on his shirt and pulled it open slightly, exposing some of his bare chest. He then gently moved a very confused Hamish so he was lying down on his chest, and positioned him so his ear was placed just above his heart.

"Now be very quiet and still, and listen, and you'll hear what I mean."

All was silent for a few moments, and then Hamish heard a gentle 'thump' come from his father's chest. He jumped up at the noise, his eyes wide with shock, his mouth hanging open. He quickly looked back and forth between his father's face and his chest. Then, tentatively, he leaned back down, placing his ear tenderly against the exposed flesh. He remained completely still, waiting... _Thump. _The boy let out an excited squeal as he jumped up again. "Da!" he said in amazement. Bouncing slightly, he pointed to his own heart and motioned for Sherlock to listen.

Smiling widely, Sherlock leaned in and placed his ear against Hamish's smooth skin, just above his heart. When he heard the gentle beating of his son's heart, his own seemed to skip a beat, and he stayed where he was, listening to the gentle thumps.

"Da?" Hamish asked, now thoroughly worried that his father hadn't moved in a while, afraid that maybe he wasn't making the same thump his father had.

Feigning amazement, Sherlock quickly pulled back, shaking his head slightly.

"Wow, Hamish! You've got one, too!" he said enthusiastically. He placed his hand on Hamish's tiny chest, covering his heart as he laughed at the amazed look on the little boy's face. Hamish, now smiling widely, did the same and moved his hand under Sherlock's shirt and placed his hand just above Sherlock's heart.

Suddenly, though, Hamish quickly realized he had forgotten one thing, and gasped lightly. He stopped what he was doing and scurried up so he was sitting next to Sherlock's face. He sat up, moved both of his tiny hands and pressed them lightly to Sherlock's lips.

"Daa," he sighed in relief, happy he had remembered about his father's lips.

"Oh," Sherlock chuckled lightly under Hamish's hands. "Those are lips, Hamish."

The little boy nodded, not trying to repeat the word this time, and Sherlock watched as that same wistful look returned to his son's face. Slowly, Hamish moved one hand to the hollow just below Sherlock's cheek for balance, and then gently began to move his hand over his father's lips, trailing his finger over the skin.

"Hmm," Hamish hummed quietly. He flattened his hand across his father's lips, and looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "Daaa," he sighed quietly, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. He blinked slowly and Sherlock noticed for the first time how long his eyelashes were.

Tenderly, Sherlock pressed a kiss into Hamish's fingers.

"Happy birthday, Hamish," he whispered.

The little boy smiled slightly. He brushed his fingers over Sherlock's lips, moving his hand so it was now on his father's other cheek. Tenderly, the little boy leaned in and placed a precious kiss to Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock's breath caught once again. The warmth in his chest seemed to spread through his entire body, his love for the little boy in front of him growing even more.

Then, almost as if he was understanding what his father was feeling, Hamish scooted back slightly, and grabbed Sherlock's hand. He moved it and placed it on his tiny chest, then slowly placed his hands over Sherlock's heart. "Daa," he sighed happily. Sherlock felt a tremendous amount of happiness flood through him at the tiny touch and he stared at Hamish, love in his ever-changing eyes.

A wave of tiredness swept over Hamish as he looked into Sherlock's eyes, and he fell forward slightly, leaning into his father's touch. His hand slid away from his father's skin as he laid down on Sherlock's chest.

Tenderly, Sherlock lifted Hamish into his arms, and got off the couch. He pulled Hamish close to his chest, his skin still warm from where the little boy's hands had been, and moved into his room.

He sat down on the bed and rolled over, deciding to let Hamish sleep with him that night. He moved so he was on his side, and clutched Hamish close, breathing in his sweet smell.

Sherlock felt the little boy's weight snuggle into him as Hamish began to fall asleep.

"Ni', Da," the little boy whispered into Sherlock's chest.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock whispered so quietly he wasn't sure if Hamish even heard it. Using his last bit of energy, Hamish moved his hand so it was resting once again over Sherlock's heart.

"Mmmm." With that, Hamish fell asleep, his body snuggled tightly against Sherlock, his hand still resting over his father's heart.

* * *

Sherlock fell asleep that night thinking that if he had learned one thing from that day, it was that Hamish had touched his heart... _In more ways than one. _


	10. Chapter Ten: The Case

Chapter Ten: The Case

It was several days after Hamish's birthday party, and Sherlock and the little boy were sat on the ground together, Sherlock watching Hamish intently as he scribbled on a piece of paper with his new crayons.

Both of their heads turned slightly towards the door as they heard it swing open. Lestrade appeared at the top of the steps, a folder in hand.

"Finally," Sherlock groaned, "something's happened. It's about time!" He stood up off the floor and turned back to Hamish, who was staring intently at Lestrade.

"Do you want to continue drawing, Hamish, or you do you want up with me?" The boy pondered this for a moment, scrunching his eyebrows together.

"Da," he said decidedly. He carefully placed the crayon on the ground, and then lifted his arms up at Sherlock. The detective walked over and scooped up the little boy.

"Hello again, Hamish. Do you remember me?" asked Lestrade, suspecting the little boy probably wouldn't recall their brief time together at the party. Hamish situated himself against Sherlock as he thought; his face contorting into a concentrated took. Both Lestrade and Sherlock smiled fondly at him, amused by his efforts.

Concluding that he did not remember ever seeing Lestrade, Hamish's features relaxed as he let out a tiny, "No."

Lestrade chuckled. "I assumed as much. My name is Greg." The Inspector reached his hand forward towards Hamish, who, suddenly frightened, flinched away, pressing his face against Sherlock's arm. Immediately, Lestrade pulled is hand back, looking at Sherlock with an apologetic face.

"Sorry," he said hurriedly, "I should have known, given the circumstances." Sherlock responded with what he hoped was a reassuring look as he turned his attention to Hamish whose face was pressed against his arm, the little boy's hands gripping tightly onto his shirt.

"Hamish?" Sherlock asked gently, urging the little boy to look at him. Hamish leaned back slightly, though he didn't loosen his grip on his father's shirt. Sherlock quickly became alarmed when he noticed silent tears were streaming down Hamish's face.

"Oh, Hamish…" he murmured, sadly, his eyebrows drawing together, forming a sad expression. Gently, he wiped the tears off of Hamish's face, brushing his thumb and the back of his fingers against the little boy's wet cheeks, clearing them of all the tears. Hamish blinked slowly with each brush of Sherlock's soft fingers against his wet skin.

Sherlock wiped away the last tear from his son's sweet face, and cradled his head in his hand. Hamish leaned into the touch, and closed his eyes slowly. "Daa," he sniffled, eyes still closed.

"I know. I know, Hamish. But you're all right… It's all okay now." Sherlock smiled sadly at the little boy, hoping to reassure him.

"Well…" Lestrade said awkwardly, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I'll just leave the file with you, then. Call me if and when you've got something." He placed the file on the arm of the couch. "Bye, Hamish. Sorry I scared you, bud." He said the last part more to Sherlock, who smiled in return.

"Thank you, Lestrade. I'll let you know when I've got something." Lestrade silently left the flat.

"Come on, then, Hamish. Let's have a look." Gently bouncing Hamish in his arms, Sherlock sauntered over to the couch, and sat down. Hamish balled his hands into fists, and rubbed them against his still-wet eyes, letting out a yawn as he did so.

"Do you want to go and take your nap a little early, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, smiling slightly as the little boy shook his head, contradicting himself as he yawned widely again.

Sherlock chuckled. "All right," he said skeptically, smiling warmly at Hamish, who tiredly leaned back against Sherlock's stomach.

Sherlock reached for the file, and laid back, letting his head rest on the arm of the couch. He was careful to support Hamish's tiny body as he moved. He scooted Hamish gently so that the little boy was now sitting on his stomach, one hand grasping Sherlock's shirt, the other rubbing his eyes tiredly. He moved up and down with his father's breathing.

Minding Hamish's body, Sherlock moved the file so that it was in front of both him and Hamish. He opened the file.

Inside were several papers on the case and three pictures. Sherlock quickly skimmed the information. It seemed that three of the five children had recently been found in three different orphanages, none of which any of the children were originally abducted from. This would mean the kidnapper still had the ten and twelve year olds.

The four and eight year olds had been questioned, but only the eight year old remembered precise details; it seemed the four year old was very traumatized by the whole endeavor.

The little girl said that she had been approached at the orphanage by the kidnapper, who she described as short, skinny man, having short, blonde hair, and brown eyes. She said that the man had told her that he wanted to adopt her and take her home; that everything had been sorted and all she had to do was go with him. Excited at the prospect of finally having a home, she left with the man.

Next, the eight year old said the man led her to his black car, which she said 'smelled new.' He drove the little girl to his house. But, the girl noted, he drove to the back of the house where he quickly ushered her inside and into a basement-type room. He then locked her in. The four year old was also in the basement.

The little girl said that the basement was dark, smelled 'dirty' and had no carpet. There was a pile of blankets in one corner and a mattress in the middle of the room, as well as a bathroom.

The next day, the man came back down, took the four year old upstairs, and left the little girl alone in the basement. The kidnapper would routinely bring down food and water, but would never speak to the child. Several days later, the man had brought a new child into the basement, the ten year old who'd gone missing.

The next day, the little girl said, he came down, brought her upstairs into the house, which she recalls as being 'very pretty' and smelling sweet. She gave a description of how the man was dressed. She was bathed and dressed in new, nice clothes and was then led into a room which contained a woman, whom the little girl was instructed to call only 'mother.' The eight year old noted that the woman she was to call her mom was bald.

Sherlock's eyes lingered on the last description the girl gave... _Bald_... _Cancer_… Sherlock thought to himself, his mind whirring with this new information. He began to twirl a lock of Hamish's hair in his hand. The little boy's gaze had moved to the file in Sherlock's hand. He peered at it with heavy eyes.

Sherlock placed the file on his chest, and moved the information away so he could look at the pictures of the kids. He moved the file back to its previous position. Hamish stared at it again.

There were three pictures, one for each child. The thing Sherlock noticed at once was that the children (all female) bore an uncanny resemblance to one another; each had jet-black hair, light blue eyes, round features, and an all-together-attractive appearance.

Sherlock's gaze focused on the eight year old, then the four year old, and finally came to rest upon the little two year old's picture. His hands froze, and he felt a constricting pain in his chest.

The little girl in the picture, though female, looked strikingly like Hamish. Her eyes were a slightly darker blue than the other girls, making them appear close in color to Hamish's deep, sea green eyes. Her hair was cropped short, and her face shape was similar to Hamish's.

Hamish noticed that his father had stopped gently twirling his hair. Missing the feeling, he turned to Sherlock, about to voice his discontent when he noticed the detective staring at the file in his hands, a stricken look on his face. Now curious as to what had caused this look on Sherlock's face, the little boy moved his eyes and followed his father's gaze.

Hamish stared at the picture of the little girl. The tiredness suddenly forgotten, Hamish moved his hand up to the picture and placed his chubby hand against the little girl's cheek. His mouth opened slightly and his eyebrows pulled together. His fingers gently flexed against the waxy paper as he turned around to Sherlock, clearly understanding the resemblance.

"Da?" he asked, worry etched into his small voice.

Suddenly, Sherlock couldn't breath. The pain in his chest seemed to grow, spreading through him. His mind what racing with "what if's..."

_What if this person had kidnapped males rather than females?_

_What if the kidnapper had gone to Hamish's orphanage first?_

_What if Hamish had been taken and locked in that cold, frightening basement. He would be so alone and frightened. I would never have found him. He wouldn't be with me right now... Not with me..._

All of Sherlock's thoughts crashed into one another as he gasped for breath, leaning up sharply, jostling Hamish as he did so. The boy let out a startled gasp as he was abruptly moved.

His hands shaking slightly, Sherlock tossed the file away.

"Da?" Hamish asked frantically, panicking as Sherlock's breaths came in quick, short breaths. "Da!" the little boy began shouting, though his light, airy voice was not terribly loud. He continued to try to get his father's attention, but Sherlock's mind was racing, thoughts about the case and thoughts of Hamish being kidnapped, and not being here with him were muddling is brain, overwhelming it.

Giving up on shouting, Hamish, now greatly concerned, reached up as fast as he could, and touched both of his tiny hands to each side of Sherlock's face. He could only reach the hollow below Sherlock's cheek, but he tugged slightly, urging his father to look at him.

All at once, Sherlock's thoughts crashed to a halt. The pain that had been spreading through his veins disappeared as Hamish pressed his cool hands against his hot skin.

With that tiny touch, Sherlock thoughts stopped with a sudden realization: that Hamish was _here_, right now, safe with him. The proof of which was the little boy's tiny fingers resting on his face.

The detective closed his eyes, focusing all of his attention on Hamish's cool fingers against his cheeks.

_Here... He's here... Safe..._ Eyes still closed, Sherlock reached up, and wrapped both of his hands around his son's incredibly small ones, releasing a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

He gave a gentle squeeze, curling his fingers firmly around Hamish's hands.

"Da..." Hamish sighed sadly. "Da 'kay?" he asked, concerned, but still enjoying the reassuring squeeze from his father.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock whispered, "Yes... Yes, I'm okay. Thank you, Hamish." He opened his eyes to find the little boy staring at him intently. Gently, Sherlock brushed his fingertips across Hamish's cheek. Just as his father had done moments ago, Hamish closed his eyes, leaning into Sherlock's touch.

Sherlock moved some of Hamish's hair from his forehead, smiling slightly at the way the little boy was leaning into his hand. He noticed that all of Hamish's head could rest in only one of his hands. He smiled fondly at just how small the little boy was.

Hamish, still wanting to reassure Sherlock, though, let go of his father's cheek with one hand, moving it to the collar of Sherlock's shirt. Stretching his body, he leaned up and tenderly pressed his lips against his father's warm skin.

Sherlock's chest, previously constricted with pain, flooded with warmth as Hamish gently kissed his cheek. A large, sweet smile spread across the detective's face. "Thank, you Hamish," he said quietly. The little boy peered up at Sherlock, a small, hopeful smile playing on his tiny lips. Hamish then pointed to his own cheek.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed happily. "Right." He leaned towards Hamish, who scrunched his eyes together in preparation. Sherlock gently kissed Hamish's tiny cheek as one thought flashed through his mind again... _Here..._

Hamish smiled widely, his eyes sparkling.

"Da 'etter!" he cheered, throwing his chubby arms into the air, any previous trepidation forgotten. Sherlock smiled, now almost completely calm. He picked up Hamish, whose arms were still outstretched, and pulled him into a tight hug.

Happy to be held in Sherlock's arms, Hamish wrapped his own around Sherlock's neck (as best he could) and gave a miniscule squeeze, hugging his father back.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm all better now…"

The excitement finally over, and all of the adrenaline now gone, Hamish recalled how tired he was. Arms still wrapped around Sherlock's neck, he yawned widely into his father's dark curls. Sherlock chuckled and gently patted Hamish's back.

"Come on, Hamish. Time for your nap." Another wide yawn. Hamish's eyelids began to droop.

"Do you want to sleep here or in your cot?" Sherlock asked as Hamish's grip around his neck loosened.

Tiredly, Hamish tapped against Sherlock's shoulder in response. Sherlock smiled, and stood up off the couch. He gently moved Hamish up and started to walk around the flat, bouncing lightly as he did so. Hamish leaned into his father's hold, and snuggled against the curve of his neck.

* * *

The detective continued to walk around the flat, keeping Hamish snuggled tightly against him as he slept. And though he'd already solved the case, Sherlock opted to continue carrying the little boy in his arms, pressing light kisses into his hair as he slept, rather than call Lestrade to tell him his findings...


	11. Chapter Eleven: Panic

**Hey readers! All right, so _this_ chapter... I do have to give a warning on this one for some pretty heavy stuff; there's violence in this one relating to Hamish. None of it is real; it all happens in the form of a dream Sherlock has, but it's still pretty angsty (and none of the violence is explicitly depicted, it's just implied, but is still pretty heavy). I felt this chapter was necessary, though, given the previous one. Know that it all ends in fluff, though! But just please be aware as you read this. Soooo... Thanks so much guys! Have a great weekend! (Sorry for talking so much!)**

Chapter Eleven: Panic

Sherlock had informed Lestrade of his findings; _obviously_ the kidnapper was an attorney (clear from his outfit and car) named Alex Bateman (Sherlock had looked up any attorneys who worked in the local area, contacted their bosses, and narrowed it down to anyone who had a wife suffering from cancer). At that point, he was directed to a Mr. Alex Bateman, whose wife of seven years was suffering from terminal cancer.

Sherlock had also determined that his wife, Dawn Bateman, had persuaded Alex to kidnap the children for her. And the reasoning behind all of this was so that she could 'raise' a child and experience being a mother before she died, hence the similarity between the children's appearance, as well as the gradual increase in age; the children, portrayed a single child—her child— were supposed to be aging, so that Dawn could fantasize that she had at least been able to experience motherhood before she died. So, granting his dying wife's last wish, Alex had found children who looked very similar in appearance, kidnapped them from orphanages where he knew they wouldn't be missed, and brought them home so his wife could 'raise a child.'

Lestrade thanked Sherlock over and over for his findings, and quickly made the proper arrests.

For the first time, Sherlock was glad to be rid of this case; he was still upset about the resemblance between the children and Hamish, and the thought of _What if…_ kept popping into his head. He tried to carry on as usual, though, and was careful not to let his anxiety show through to John; he didn't want to have to share his fears with anyone.

Several days later, Sherlock finally thought he'd gotten over the fright of the case. He calmed down considerably, and spent most of the day playing with Hamish, helping him to draw an uncountable number of pictures, but praising the little boy on each, nevertheless.

However, it was that night that the detective had his first nightmare…

_Sherlock was lying on the floor of his bedroom. His head hurt. He reached up, and felt that his hair was sticky with blood. He tried to think straight, sitting up slowly. His breathing stopped as he suddenly remembered: he'd been putting Hamish in his cot when he'd been hit in the head with a blunt object._

_Already sensing that Hamish had been taken, Sherlock stood up, and fled down the stairs and out the front door, all the while shouting frantically, "Hamish? Hamish?!"_

_He ran out onto the street and saw a man, carrying Hamish over his shoulder, getting into a cab. Hamish was screaming with all of his might, calling out for his father. Upon seeing Sherlock run out, an infinitesimal amount of hope could be seen shining in the little boy's dark green eyes._

"_Daaa!" he screamed, desperately trying to kick and fight and squirm his way out of his captor's arms. "Da! Daa!" He stretched his arms toward Sherlock, frantically trying to reach his father._

"_Hamish! Hamish I'm coming! I'm coming!" Sherlock yelled. He ran as quickly as he could towards Hamish, but just as he reached his hands towards the little boy, his fingertips almost brushing against Hamish's, the man stepped into the cab and it zoomed away, pulling the little boy away with it._

"_NO! No! HAMISH! Hamish, please! Please, no!" Sherlock fell to his knees as he felt an unbearable weight crush down on his chest. He couldn't breath. He couldn't' see. The weight changed to pain, and, gasping for breath, and groaning from the unimaginable amount of pain coursing through his veins, Sherlock stood up, and tried to run after the cab, which by now was now long gone. _

"_No… No… Nooo…" he kept breathing as he ran. Eventually the pain and weight became too much to bear, and Sherlock fell to the ground, crashing to the pavement. _

"_Daaa!" Hamish's screams echoed in Sherlock's head. He let out a sob at the sound of his son crying out..._

_Suddenly, Hamish's cries still ringing in his ears, everything began to spin, and then Sherlock was sitting in Lestrade's office at Scotland Yard. The Inspector was talking to him, someone, probably John, was rubbing his back, but none of that was registering in Sherlock's mind. All he heard was Hamish's cries repeating over and over, and all he saw was the utterly broken look on Hamish's face just as he was pulled into the cab… Pulled away from his father. Sherlock could see all of the emotions that had flashed through his son's eyes in that moment: fear, sadness, terror, and brokenness… Pure and utter brokenness…_

_Somewhere a phone was ringing, the noise loud and obnoxious. It made Sherlock's head pound. He barely noticed as Lestrade hurried over to it and picked it up. Sherlock saw the Inspector's face drop, his eyes filling with regret._

_No… No… Please, please... He can't, can't be... No..._

"_No," Sherlock whispered. He stood up and stumbled over Lestrade, fear gripping his whole body. He grasped onto Lestrade's jacket with both hands and began to beg, "Please… Please, no. Please!" _

_In response to Sherlock's begging, Lestrade pulled the detective into a tight hug, and whispered, "I'm so sorry, Sherlock. You did all you could."_

"_No," he gasped. A pain rippled through him. He collapsed onto the floor, clutching his chest. Sobs were ripping though his body, tears streaming down his cheeks. He couldn't breath, he couldn't think. Couldn't feel anything but a completely unbearable amount of sadness and pain. _

"_Hamish," he choked. "I'm so-sorry… I'm so sorry!" _

_Everything began to spin around him again, and then he was no longer in Lestrade's office, but lying on cold concrete. His eyes fell upon a small mound a few feet away, covered with a sheet._

"_Oh no… NO!" Sherlock moaned, another sob ripping through him. His heart seemed to constrict. Cries shaking his body, Sherlock crawled towards the little mound. With shaking fingers, he pulled away the sheet._

_"No," he whimpered as he stared into the lifeless eyes of his son—his Hamish. _

_A sadness and pain that no words can describe filled his entire being, and he yelled out, sobs shaking his body as he stared at the little boy. _

_Tenderly, as if he was afraid he would hurt him, Sherlock scooped up Hamish, cradling him in his arms. Impossibly, the little boy's already-tiny form seemed even smaller in Sherlock's arms. His eyes had shut, almost giving him the appearance that he was sleeping peacefully._

_Sherlock ducked closer to Hamish, and began whispering into the little boy's silky hair, "It's okay. It's okay, Hamish. Daddy's here now… I'm here. You're safe, you're safe. It's okay. It's okay," he whispered, placing tender kisses to Hamish's hair and forehead._

"_Daddy's here, daddy's here. It's all okay." He began gently rocked back and forth on the hard floor, as if to console both the little boy in his arms and himself. Knowing, though, that his efforts and his words were fruitless, Sherlock's features contorted as he dared to look at Hamish's face. He fell onto the ground, and clutched Hamish to his chest, weeping into the little boy's hair. His cries echoed in the room as he __sobbed over and over again, "I'm so sorry, Hamish. I'm so sorry..."_

_And then, just like that, Hamish disappeared from his grasp, leaving Sherlock all by himself on the concrete floor. He heard one last "Daa!" before…_

"NOO!" Sherlock was jolted awake by his own scream. Instantly, he threw himself to the other side of the bed, and frantically looked into the cot.

Upon seeing Hamish sleeping soundly, Sherlock quickly slid out of bed, and pressed both of his hands over his eyes, as he sobbed out a quiet, "Thank God." He began to cry, relief rushing through him. He sat back down on the bed, hands still covering his eyes as he sobbed silently. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

Eventually, his breathing began to return to normal, and his heart rate slowed.

Wiping his eyes with both hands, Sherlock turned and reached into the cot. Gingerly, he pulled a still-sleeping Hamish out of the cot, and hugged him to his chest. He placed one hand on the back of Hamish's head, and began to gently play with the auburn curls.

Sensing his father's embrace, Hamish leaned into the detective, resting his tiny cheek against Sherlock's chest. Glad to be safely tucked in his father's arms, Hamish took a deep breath and let out a small sigh as he exhaled.

As he felt Hamish breathe in arms, Sherlock began to weep again, a new wave of relief flooding over him. He pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's temple, flattening some his son's unruly curls as he did so.

Hamish stirred slightly at the kiss, and his eyes fluttered open.

"Da?" he asked tiredly, talking into his father's shirt.

Upon hearing Hamish's tiny voice, Sherlock scooted the little boy up so his head was resting against his neck. He turned, and pressed another delicate kiss to Hamish's cheek.

"Daddy's here…" he whispered into Hamish's hair. "I'm here. Everything's all right now," Sherlock murmured, more to himself than to Hamish. He let out an unsteady breath, which resulted in his own body shaking slightly. He sniffled, and gently turned his head so he was talking into Hamish's cheek. He whispered to the little boy, who had closed his eyes in an effort to fall asleep again, "I'm sorry I woke you, Hamish."

Upon hearing his father's voice again, Hamish tiredly opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. The moonlight streaming in from the window danced off of the little boy's eyes, making them glow slightly as he opened them. Sherlock gasped, momentarily frozen by the beauty of his son.

As he looked into Hamish's dark green irises, the adrenaline began to leave his body, as he was now fully reassured that Hamish was safe and sound.

"Mmm... 'Kay, Da..." Hamish replied tiredly, closing his eyes once again as he leaned into Sherlock.

Smiling fondly at his son, Sherlock leaned in, and placed a gentle kiss to Hamish's nose; letting his lips linger against the soft, cool skin. His wet, tear-stained cheek brushed against Hamish's, leaving a small wet mark against the little boy's cheek.

Gasping slightly at the sensation, Hamish opened his eyes quickly and looked up at his father. For the first time the little boy noticed Sherlock's very wet face.

"No!" he gasped. Frantically, Hamish leaned forward, his little face scrunched up in a combination of worry, sadness and fright.

"Hamish, it's all right, I'm okay," Sherlock whispered, trying to reassure the little boy when he saw the worried look on his face. The detective stopped speaking, though, as he felt Hamish's tiny hands press against his lips.

"No, Da," the little boy said, silencing Sherlock as he tapped his fingers lightly against his father's lips. He then pointed to himself to with one hand, as if to say it was his turn to do something.

"Okay, Hamish. Go ahead," Sherlock murmured quietly against the little boy's fingers. Hamish turned his attention to his father's cheeks, and Sherlock couldn't help put frown slightly as he saw the sad look that filled his son's eyes upon seeing the tears on his face.

Slowly, Hamish moved one hand until it was resting against Sherlock's collarbone so he could balance as he moved his other hand to his father's face. Tenderly, he brushed his chubby fingers over Sherlock's sharp cheekbone, wiping some tears away as he did so. He then repeated the action for the other cheek, brushing away his father's tears. He continued to wipe away the proof of Sherlock's sadness as he tenderly brushed each tear from the detective's face.

Sherlock smiled at the sensation of Hamish's chubby fingers against his cheeks, brushing away his tears and sadness. He closed his eyes; his son's tiny, cool fingers felt soothing and reassuring against his hot skin. Not even realizing he was doing it, Sherlock leaned into Hamish's gentle touch. He took a deep breath, and exhaled, another wave of relief washing over him as Hamish's hand wiped away another tear.

Sherlock continued to sit on the bed, keeping his eyes closed as Hamish wiped away each and every tear, until there was just one left resting on his father's cheek. With a determined, yet sad look in his eyes, Hamish took one tiny finger and very gently rubbed away Sherlock's last tear. He let his hand rest against the detective's cheekbone as he turned to look into his father's eyes.

"Oh, Daa," he sighed sadly, brushing his hand against Sherlock's cheek again, as if to wipe away another invisible tear.

Sherlock opened his eyes, and looked sadly into Hamish's intense green irises. Not satisfied yet, the little boy leaned forward, stretching his body as he did so, and planted two light kisses against Sherlock's eyelids, as if to permanently signify the end of his sadness.

When he finished, Hamish relaxed his body and rested his cheek against Sherlock's. The little boy closed his eyes as he tenderly whispered again, "Oh, Daa…"

Smiling sadly, Sherlock pressed a kiss into Hamish's dark curls.

"Thank you, Hamish. Thank you so very, very much," he whispered.

"Mmm," Hamish murmured against Sherlock's cheek.

The detective placed his hand against the back of Hamish's head, and gently kissed the little boy's cheek.

"Mmm..."

After several moments, after he'd thought Hamish had already drifted off into sleep again, Sherlock heard the little boy speak, his voice just a whisper.

"Da?" he asked quietly, talking against Sherlock's cheek.

"Yes, Hamish?" he answered, his voice just a murmur.

He felt Hamish's little hands pressing against his chest. He removed his hand from the little boy's head, and moved it so it was resting lightly against his back. He was careful to support Hamish as he leaned back in his arms.

The little boy's face scrunched together for a moment, deep in thought, and then relaxed again as he remembered his question. He pointed at Sherlock's face, and tapped the detective's jaw with one tiny finger.

"What, Da?" he asked curiously, a hint of worry in his eyes and voice.

Knowing what Hamish was asking, Sherlock let out a sad sigh. He stood up, getting off the bed, and moved Hamish so that he was resting just above his waist. Waiting for his response, Hamish held onto the back of Sherlock's arm with one hand, and grabbed a fistful of his father's shirt in the other. Tiredly, he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder, and peered up at the detective's face with expectant eyes.

When Sherlock didn't speak, but rather just began swaying back and forth, Hamish repeated his question again. "What, Da?"

Sherlock began to slowly pace around the room, thinking about how he should begin. Eventually, he took a deep breath and turned his attention to Hamish, who was peering up at him from where he was resting, his eyes wide and curious.

"I had a nightmare, Hamish," he began slowly. "Do you know what that is?"

The little boy thought for a moment, pulling his eyebrows together. But, not remembering his own nightmares, Hamish shook his head no.

"All right, then," Sherlock continued. "Well, a nightmare is a really bad dream, Hamish. It's a dream where you experience something scary, or sad, and it makes _you_ scared or sad. Nightmares can be about anything, really, but usually they end in feelings of helplessness, anxiety, or sorrow. Do you understand so far?"

Hamish nodded slightly, rubbing his cheek against Sherlock's sleeve. The detective continued speaking.

"Now sometimes dreams, good or bad, can make you think that something's happening in real life. And if you ever think a nightmare is actually happening, it can be very scary and upsetting. That's what happened to me. I was dreaming that something very bad happened to someone I love, and it scared me, because, for a moment, I thought that it had actually happened in real life. That's why I was crying. Understand?"

Slowly, Hamish nodded, but it was clear that his mind was somewhere else; the little boy was thinking deeply.

Patiently, Sherlock waited for Hamish to continue with his thoughts. He paced slowly around the room, and absentmindedly began to rub the little boy's back.

Eventually, Hamish pointed to himself, and looked up at Sherlock asking, "Da?"

The detective sighed. He had been hoping Hamish wouldn't inquire about the details of the dream, much less deduce that it had been about him; he didn't want the little boy to become upset.

Hesitantly, he answered, "Yes, Hamish. My bad dream was about you. But it's all okay now," he added hurriedly, hoping Hamish wouldn't ask anymore questions. "You're here and safe and nothing happened." He placed a quick kiss to Hamish's forehead.

Smiling at the kiss, Hamish grabbed hold of Sherlock's shirt once again, as he nodded slowly. "What?" he asked finally.

Sherlock sighed quietly. "Nothing, Hamish," he said quickly. He could already feel his heartbeat quicken at the memory of the horrible dream.

"No, Da," Hamish said firmly. "What?" He gazed up at Sherlock with his large eyes. Sherlock stared back, the corner of his eyes pulled down slightly at the thought of the nightmare.

"Okay," he whispered quietly, brushing away Hamish's hair from his forehead. "I had a nightmare that someone had broken into the flat, and taken you away from me. And I was so scared that I was never going to see you again." Sherlock felt his breath quicken as he looked into Hamish's eyes, which were now wide with fear. "I chased after the bad person, and almost had you, but then, just like that, you slipped out of my reach, and I thought I'd lost you forever." Sherlock suddenly realized that Hamish's eyes were filling with tears, and that the little boy's grip on his arm and chest had gotten much tighter. Hurriedly, he finished summarizing his dream, changing the ending so as to calm Hamish. "But then I found you, took you back home, and everything was all right again. So it ended up happy. There's nothing to cry about, Hamish. It's okay." He quickly brushed his thumb over the top of Hamish's cheek. He felt the little boy relax once again, the grip on his shirt and sleeve loosening.

"Ohh," Hamish sighed in relief, leaning his head back against his father's shoulder, all fear now washed away by Sherlock's calming words.

"'Kay, Da?" he asked quietly, looking up at Sherlock.

The detective chuckled lightly under his breath at his son's question.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm okay now, thank you." His lips turned up at the corners as he felt Hamish smile against his shoulder.

Tenderly, he leaned in and placed a soft kiss to Hamish's smooth cheek, and then, feeling the little boy giggle slightly in his arms, he pressed another kiss into Hamish's ear, smiling as he did so. His son's light, airy laugh filled the room.

Grinning, Sherlock placed Hamish on his back, lying him down on the bed and began pressing quick, little kisses all over his face as he did so, throwing the little boy into a fit of sweet giggles.

"Da!" he squealed happily, as he pressed his hands against Sherlock's neck, trying to stop the stream of ticklish kisses that were covering his face.

Sherlock laughed out loud as he began to tickle Hamish's belly. He reached down and curled his hands around the little boy's tiny feet. He began to kiss Hamish's toes, sending him into a new fit of giggles. Still laughing, he blew a quiet raspberry against the bottom of Hamish's soft feet.

"Daa!" the little boy gasped, still laughing. "No! No, Daa!" he squealed happily. Sherlock continued to laugh, but stopped tickling the little boy upon hearing his protests. He kept his fingers wrapped around Hamish's tiny feet, and leaned forward so he was above Hamish. He ducked down and his raven curls brushed against his son's cheeks as he planted a gentle kiss to Hamish's nose.

"Shhh," he chuckled lightly, "We might wake up John, hmm?" He scooped Hamish up into a hug, and leaned back on the bed, letting his back rest agains the headboard.

"Mmm," Hamish replied, still giggling. He reached up and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Hmmm. Da 'etter," he declared joyfully as he leaned back in his father's arms. Sherlock smiled fondly in response as Hamish reached up and tried to wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Ohhh," the detective sighed deeply, changing positions so he was laying on the bed, his head resting on the pillows, Hamish resting on his chest, his chubby arms still resting on his neck.

"Let's both go back to sleep, hmm?" he murmured quietly.

Carefully, he crawled back under the covers, and made to place Hamish back in his cot, but he was answered by a very persistent, "No, Da. No," as Hamish gripped onto his fingers.

Trying to hide his smile, Sherlock pulled Hamish under the covers with him, secretly happy to have the comfort of Hamish's small form nuzzling against him.

Carefully, trying not to jostle Hamish too much, Sherlock moved the pillows to form a wall on the other side of the bed. Getting situated, he found a comfortable position on his side, and settled into the bed, pulling Hamish close to him.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed as he snuggled in closer to Sherlock's chest, closing his eyes.

As he felt Hamish's tiny form lean into him, Sherlock closed his eyes, hoping that he would be able to get some sleep, void of nightmares. He listened to the sound of Hamish's breathing, steady and even...

"Da?" came a quiet whisper.

"Yes, Hamish?" In response, Hamish moved Sherlock's hand, which had been resting on his back, and pulled it up to his face. He pressed a tender kiss to his father's fingertips. "Nigh', Da," he whispered into Sherlock's hand. His tiny fingers began to absentmindedly trace the lines on the palm of his father's hand.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured quietly into the little boy's hair. "I love you...", he added with a kiss to Hamish's forehead.

Hamish continued to trace his palm, and Sherlock found his son's tiny touch soothing. He felt his eyelids become heavy, and then, almost unwillingly, they slid shut.

"Mmm," he hummed, his deep baritone voice filling the room. Subconsciously, he wrapped his hand around Hamish's, and, his son snuggling against him, silently fell asleep...

That night, sleeping soundly against his father, it was Hamish's comfort that chased away Sherlock's nightmares.


	12. Chapter Twelve: Love

**Hey readers! So this chapter is pretty short, so I decided to just post it today. Thanks for all your wonderful reviews and to all my followers and readers! Have a great rest of your weekend, guys! Enjoy! =)Thanks!**

Chapter Twelve: Love

That was the last nightmare Sherlock had. Life returned to normal quickly after the scare of the orphanage case.

Ever since the nightmare, though, the detective had a new appreciation for Hamish; a new kind of love had formed the moment the little boy had tenderly brushed away his sadness.

It was several days later, as Hamish was sat on the floor, trying desperately to put together a puzzle, when Sherlock had this realization. His chest filled with warmth, and he couldn't help but smile at Hamish. This little boy—his son—had melted away his cold exterior.

"Amazing," he murmured out loud, not even noticing he had said it. Hamish turned away from the puzzle piece in his hand and looked at his father.

"Da?" he asked curiously upon seeing the almost dazed look on Sherlock's face.

"Hmm? Oh! Yes. Sorry, Hamish, I was just thinking. Here," he said, leaning over towards Hamish. He guided the little boy's hands until the large puzzle piece dropped into place.

"See?" he said, smiling warmly at Hamish, but the little boy barely noticed. His attention was now focused entirely on Sherlock.

"What's wrong, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, noticing how his son was staring at him intently.

"What?" Hamish asked, shoving the puzzle away with his chubby hands. He crawled over to Sherlock, and pulled himself up, trying to sit on his father's lap.

Chuckling under his breath at Hamish's efforts, Sherlock picked up the little boy, and moved him so he was resting on his legs.

"What was I thinking about? Is that what you're asking?" Sherlock questioned. The little boy nodded and began to twiddle one of Sherlock's buttons between his tiny fingers.

"I was thinking about you," the detective stated, staring at the little boy on his lap. Hamish's fingers froze at his father's words, and he pointed to himself, a shocked look on his face, as if he was amazed Sherlock could be thinking about _him_.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled. He moved his hand, and playfully ran one of his fingers down Hamish's tiny nose, causing the little boy to giggle slightly. "I was thinking about you."

Hamish smiled widely, now very excited that he'd learned his father had been thinking of him.

Grinning, he reached his arms up at Sherlock, who was still chuckling at the little boy's amazement. Gently, Sherlock picked Hamish up and placed him so he was resting against his chest.

Without thinking, Hamish began to trace the gap at the base of Sherlock's neck with his tiny fingers as he situated himself in his father's arms. The detective smiled fondly at the sensation.

Still very excited, Hamish asked again, "What, Da?" He leaned into Sherlock, resting his head against his fathers' chest.

Sherlock looked down at Hamish, and couldn't help but smile at the excited look on the little boy's face. He moved his hand and placed it on Hamish's back as he stood up off the ground. He slowly began to walk around the room.

"I was just thinking about how much I love you, Hamish," he said to the little boy in his arms. Hamish nodded against Sherlock's chest, still smiling. But, thinking about his father's words, his face contorted with confusion. He tried to repeat the new word Sherlock had just said.

"'Ooo…'Ove, Da? What?"

"Well," Sherlock began, thinking about how he should explain love to Hamish. He began to bounce the little boy slightly in arms as he started to pace around the flat. He continued to talk, "Technically, love is release of chemicals in the body such as phenylethylamine (though it's better know as PEA), norepinephrine, dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins. The release of these chemicals brings about feelings of elation, happiness, comfort," Sherlock said, talking far too quickly for Hamish, who looked completely lost, though this went unnoticed by the detective and he continued speaking quickly, excited to be sharing information with his son.

"There are several different forms of love, technically speaking, although, really, the chemical releases are very similar in nature, with just a few minor differences. It's really quite interesting if you think about it. I mean—"

"Da?" Hamish whispered quietly, overwhelmed by flow of words from Sherlock.

"Hmm? Oh! Right… Sorry, Hamish. I just got a little carried away." Sherlock looked down at Hamish, and couldn't' help but laugh at the utterly confused and overwhelmed look on the little boy's face.

"Sorry," he laughed again, brushing some curls away from Hamish's face. The detective stopped pacing, and opted to sway back and forth. He bounced the little boy lightly in arms as he thought of how to phrase his words.

"Love… Well… When you love someone, it means you care very deeply about them; you would do anything for them. You can find comfort in the ones you love, Hamish. Sometimes, it can result in things a warmth in your chest, or something like a fluttering in your belly," Sherlock murmured. To help him understand, he reached down and gently tickled Hamish's stomach.

Smiling, the detective continued speaking. "Love can be shown in many different ways; from just giving a hug or kiss, to saying it out loud, to giving someone a compliment."

"Oh," Hamish said quietly. Thinking, he stuck out his bottom lip, and continued to play with the gap at his father's neck.

Seeing how hard Hamish was thinking, Sherlock asked, "Do you understand what I told you, Hamish?" In response, the little leaned forward, resting his head against his fathers' chest. He nodded slowly, and then closed his eyes. His eyebrows pulled together as he thought.

Sherlock waited patiently for Hamish. Smiling fondly, he began to twirl a lock of the little boy's auburn hair between his fingers.

Eventually, Hamish opened his eyes, but it was clear he was still thinking.

"Da?" he asked, gazing up at Sherlock.

"Yes, Hamish? What is it?" the detective asked quietly, hoping not to disturb Hamish's train of thought.

"'Ove…" he began slowly.

"Yes? What about it?"

Not knowing how to put what he was wanting to say into words, Hamish leaned back in Sherlock's arms, hoping to show his father what he meant. He took one of his tiny hands, and placed it on his chest. Then, looking up at Sherlock, he moved his other small hand and placed it against Sherlock's chest, right over his heart.

"'Ove, Da?" he asked, his eyebrows still pulled together.

"Oh…" Sherlock sighed, surprised at how much Hamish had understood.

"Yes, Hamish," Sherlock whispered excitedly. Slowly, he took one of his hands and moved it so it was resting on top of Hamish's tiny chest, covering his son's hand with his own. "Love," he whispered happily, nodding encouragingly at the little boy.

"'Ove!" Hamish cried happily, excited that he had understood his father's explanation. He threw his arms up and wrapped them as tightly as he could around Sherlock's neck. "'Ove!" he laughed again, snuggling into the detective's neck.

"Yes!" Sherlock chuckled, happy at Hamish's excitement. "Very good, Hamish! So clever!" he leaned down and planted a quick kiss to Hamish's cheek, smiling brightly as he did so. "I'm very proud of you," he chuckled.

"'Ove?" the little boy asked excitedly.

"Yes, yes! I love you, Hamish." Sherlock beamed as he saw Hamish's smile widen and felt the little boy's grip around his neck tighten.

Playfully, Sherlock tickled Hamish's neck, asking, "And do you love me, Hamish? Hmm?" He chuckled as the little boy squirmed happily in his arms.

"'Es! Yes!" Hamish giggled happily, trying to escape the stream of tickles. "Yes, 'ove Da!"

Sherlock, still smiling, stopped tickling Hamish. "Good!" he sighed, over-exaggerating greatly, "I was worried there for a moment."

"Daa," Hamish giggled.

"Hmm," Sherlock replied happily, squeezing his arms around Hamish in a hug.

"'Ove!" the little boy repeated again, talking happily into Sherlock's neck.

"Ohhh, we're going to be hearing that for a while, aren't we?" the detective chuckled happily.

"Yes! 'Ove!"

* * *

In fact, it took several weeks for little Hamish to grow tired of using the new word, and though Sherlock grew tired of the word itself, he never grew tired of all of the hugs and kisses Hamish would give him, the way his face would light every time he used the new word, and he never grew tired of being reminded what the word 'love' entailed…


	13. Chapter Thirteen: Milestones

Chapter Thirteen: Milestones

"John?" Sherlock called worryingly from where he was sitting at the table, his fingers typing quickly over the computer keys.

"Yeah?" John called from the kitchen. When no response came, he left the kitchen, calling "Sherlock?"

"Walking," the detective muttered as his eyes scanned the computer screen in front of him.

Confused, John sat down in his chair, and turned his attention to his flat mate. "Mmm… Okay. Walking. What about it?"

"Hamish," Sherlock replied, muttering again under his breath.

The doctor thought for a moment. "What about Hamish walking?" he asked, still very confused.

"He should be walking by now. He's nearly fourteen months old, and it says here," he nodded with his head towards the screen, "that by now he should probably be walking. He hasn't even taken his first few steps yet." He shut the computer, and turned around to look at John who was smirking and rolling his eyes.

"What, John?" Sherlock said defensively. "What if there's something wrong with—"

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" John cried, chuckling. The detective stopped talking, and glanced towards the door to his room, checking to make sure Hamish had not woken from his nap.

Shaking his head and laughing slightly, John continued to talk to his flat mate. "Sherlock, Hamish is just fine; he's already started using objects around the flat to wobble around. He'll be walking any day now, I promise." He smiled reassuringly.

Sherlock thought for a moment, steepling his fingers under his chin. After thinking for several moments, he finally sat up, and moved to his chair. He draped his arms over the arms of the chair, leaning back.

"Yes, I suppose you're right," he muttered dejectedly.

John couldn't help but chuckle at the worried look on Sherlock's face. "Ohh," he sighed. "Hamish has definitely changed you," he said, smiling at the detective.

"How do you mean?" Sherlock asked curiously.

"Oh, I don't know. You just seem… Different. Happier, maybe? And, though you try to hide it, I've seen how soft you are with him," John added, smirking slightly, which received a royal eye roll from Sherlock, though the detective couldn't help but smile ever so slightly, as he knew John was correct.

"Hmm," he murmured slowly, peering at John. "Yes. I suppose he has changed me, hasn't he?" he pondered out loud.

In response, John raised his eyebrows, with a look that clearly said: _Told you so. _"Mmm-hmm," he hummed, looking smug as he turned his attention to the newspaper sitting on the arm of his chair

"Oh please," Sherlock moaned. He was just about to mount a well-planned defense when the sound of Hamish waking up in his room interrupted him.

"Hmm," John hummed again, smirking at the newspaper in his hands.

Rolling his eyes again, Sherlock opened the door to his room, and crossed over to the crib. He reached down and lifted Hamish up by his armpits, hugging him close to his chest.

"Hello, Hamish. Did you have a good nap, hmm?" Tiredly, Hamish leaned into Sherlock, letting his head lightly rest against his father's chest as he rubbed his eyes with one tiny fist.

"Mmm," he sighed against Sherlock's chest. "Yes, Daddy."

Sherlock and Hamish froze at the same time, both realizing that the little boy had said 'daddy' for the first time.

"Hamish!" Sherlock cried happily, sitting down on the bed, and setting the little boy on his lap. Hamish looked just as shocked as his father, with his mouth hanging open slightly and his eyes wide and excited.

Smiling widely, the detective pulled Hamish into his arms, hugging him tightly. "I'm very proud of you, Hamish!" he praised, planting soft kisses to the little boy's chubby cheeks.

"Yes, Daddy! 'Es!" Happy with his achievement, Hamish leaned forward, pressing his tiny form tightly against Sherlock's chest.

"Ohh," Sherlock sighed happily, hugging the little boy tightly to his chest. "Let's go tell John, hmm?" he said excitedly.

Sherlock stood up, still hugging Hamish close to his chest and walked out of his room.

"John?"

"Yeah?" the doctor replied, looking away from his newspaper. Excitedly, Sherlock turned Hamish around so he was sitting on his arms, his back pressed against the detective's chest.

He bent his head down ever so slightly and told Hamish encouragingly, "Go on. Tell him."

Hamish nodded, and took a deep breath. He looked at John excitedly and, pointing to Sherlock, called out, "Daddy!"

"Oh!" John exclaimed, standing up quickly. "Good job, then, Hamish. That's exciting isn't, it?" He smiled at Sherlock who was practically beaming.

"Yes, Joh! Daddy!" Hamish was bouncing happily in Sherlock's arms, his deep green eyes glowing with excitement. "Daddy!" he giggled again, turning around in Sherlock's arms so he could give the detective a hug.

"Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock laughed, giving John a knowing look.

"Daddy," the little boy sighed happily into Sherlock's neck.

"Great job, Hame," John laughed. He reached over, and gave Hamish's back a light pat, turned his attention back to his newspaper, still smiling, and glanced at the watch on his wrist.

"Oh!" he cried, standing up. "I've got to get going. Going to be late!" He grabbed his coat, and turned back to Hamish, who was still snuggled tightly against Sherlock, smiling into the detective's shirt.

"Bye, Hame. Very good job! Have a fun day, you two." He quickly kissed the little boy's cheek, then hurried down the stairs, calling, "Bye, Sherlock."

After hearing the door shut, Sherlock detective turned his attention back to Hamish.

"Well," he sighed, moving the little boy back slightly so that he could look at him. "I say we celebrate. How does some ice cream sound, hmm?" he asked, smiling as Hamish's eyes widened slightly.

"'Es, Daddy!"

"Good," he chuckled. "But you can't tell John, okay? Let's keep it a secret from John, okay?" Sherlock whispered playfully.

"Ohh," Hamish sighed, now very serious at the prospect of having to keep a secret, "'Kay, Daddy."

Sherlock chuckled at the little boy's seriousness and crouched down, placing Hamish on the ground. He looked lovingly into the little boy's eyes.

"I'll go get the ice cream. Do you want to stay here and play, or help me get the ice cream?"

"Daddy," Hamish replied confidently. Smiling, Sherlock picked up the little boy, placing him on his hip as he walked into the kitchen.

Sherlock sat Hamish in his chair, buckling him in as he turned towards the freezer. He pulled out a tub of ice cream, quickly grabbed two bowls, and sat down at the table. He placed the ice cream and bowls in front of Hamish and moved his chair closer to the little boy.

"Do you want to help, Hamish?" he asked.

"'Es, Daddy."

Sherlock took Hamish's tiny hand in his own, wrapping his long fingers around both the little boy's hand and the spoon, and helped Hamish scoop some of the ice cream into his bowl. He then guided the little boy's hand to scoop one spoonful of ice cream into his own bowl, though Hamish insisted he should have more.

"Thank you, Hamish, but this is enough for me," he said gently, smiling at Hamish warmly as he did so.

"Oh," the little boy said quietly. "'Kay, Da."

The two ate the ice cream quickly. Once they were finished, Sherlock cleared away the bowls, and, much to the chagrin of Hamish, tried to clean off the little boy's face.

"Daddy!" he protested, trying to push away his father's hands, though his efforts were so cute that Sherlock couldn't hold back a smile.

"Hamish," he began, laughing at the little boy's fruitless efforts, "You have chocolate ice cream all over your face. I have to clean it off," he chuckled.

With a very pitiful look on his face, Hamish stopped his protests and allowed Sherlock to clean off the rest of his face and hands.

"You are definitely my son, aren't you?" the detective chuckled lightly upon seeing the look on his son's face. Tenderly, he brushed his thumb over Hamish's now-clean cheek, a fond look in his eyes.

"My son..." he murmured quietly, letting his thumb rest on the little boy's soft cheek.

All previous distress forgotten, Hamish closed his eyes as Sherlock's thumb rested on his face, and leaned in to the touch.

"Daddy…" he sighed happily.

That same fond look in his eyes, Sherlock felt a wave of love rush over him as Hamish's small head rested in is hand, a content look on the little boy's face.

"Daddy," Hamish smiled, opening his dark green eyes to peer into his father's ever-changing grey ones.

Sherlock smiled warmly at the little boy, brushing his thumb over the top of his cheek once more, before asking, "Do you want your shirt on or off, Hamish?" Over the past few weeks, he had learned that the little boy much preferred to go about his day wearing just a nappy, rather than his clothes.

In response, the little boy tugged at the bottom of his shirt, trying to pull it off. Smiling, Sherlock reached forward, and pulled Hamish out of his chair, moving the little boy so he was sitting on his lap. He gently pulled off Hamish's shirt, which was also messy from the ice cream, and placed it on the table.

"There," he said, bouncing his knees slightly. He let one of his hands rest on Hamish's back. Tenderly, he began rubbing his thumb back and forth, not even realizing he was doing it, the corner of his lips turning up as he remembered how smooth the little boy's skin truly was.

"Well. What shall we do today, then?" he asked, still bouncing Hamish on his knees. "We could watch television, draw, play with your toys, do some more puzzles—"

"Yes," Hamish replied happily upon hearing 'puzzles.'

"Puzzles. Okay, then." Sherlock stood up and walked out of the kitchen, Hamish on his hip. He sat the little boy down on the ground and pulled out one of his many puzzles they had bought, this one happening to be a puzzle about shapes.

He bent down, squatting next to Hamish who had already pulled all of the shapes out of their slots. "Hamish, I'm going to be working on some things in the kitchen, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish replied, though he was completely engrossed in the puzzle, he barely noticed his father talking. Chuckling, Sherlock stood up, and grabbed John's computer as he made his way to the kitchen, making sure the door was opened all the way. He pulled out his microscope from under the sink, along with some samples he'd wanted to look at, and sat down in one of the chairs, opening the computer as he did so.

"Oh, John," he chuckled happily to himself, "You tried to change your password. You actually think it'll keep me out. Funny," he murmured to himself as he quickly typed in the new password.

The detective sat at the table, looking at the samples, and glancing occasionally at John's laptop. He continuously peered over at Hamish to make sure he was all right, and couldn't help but smile occasionally at the cute little baby noises he kept making.

Eventually, Hamish got tired of the shapes puzzle, shoving it away with a frustrated look on his face. He crawled over to Sherlock's chair, using the leg to pull himself up until he was in a standing position. With his bottom lip stuck out, he scanned the room, hoping to find something to do. Hesitantly, he took a step forward, and then froze when he realized his hand was not holding onto the leg of the chair anymore.

"Da-Daddy!" he called, a terrified look on his face.

"Hmm?" Sherlock murmured from the kitchen, staring intently into the microscope, distracted by the sample. When no reply came, he called, louder this time, "Yes, Hamish? What is it?"

"Da!"

When Hamish called, 'da,' rather than 'daddy,' the detective looked up from the microscope, and practically jumped out of the chair when he saw Hamish standing by himself, a horrified look on his small face.

"Hamish!" Sherlock cried as he hurried out of the kitchen. He knelt down a few feet away from Hamish, stretching his arms out, smiling excitedly as he did so.

He laughed out loud, as he saw the mixed look of confusion and fright on Hamish's face.

Keeping his arms outstretched, Sherlock chuckled, "No, Hamish. It's okay, it's okay, I promise. I'm right here."

"Daddy," he moaned, still frozen.

Sherlock chuckled sadly. "Oh, Hamish. It's okay. Here…" Hoping to reassure the little boy, he moved forward slightly, keeping his arms outstretched. "You can do it!" he said encouragingly. "Come on! Just walk right into my arms, I've got you."

Hamish still appeared doubtful, though, and he looked at Sherlock, tears beginning to brim in his eyes.

"I'm right here," Sherlock murmured quietly, hoping to reassure the frightened little boy. "I'll catch you if you fall… I promise… You can do it."

Upon hearing his father's soothing voice, Hamish looked up into Sherlock's eyes.

"I promise," he whispered again, nodding at the little boy.

Hamish paused for a moment, and then took a deep breath. He looked into his father's eyes, and then, very cautiously, took one step forward, wobbling slightly as he did so.

"Yes! Yes, Hamish, that's it! Come on, one more, you can do it!"

Still staring intently at Sherlock, Hamish stepped forward again, a glint of hope and excitement in his sea-green eyes.

Hoping to get the little boy to walk more, Sherlock took one tiny step back, keeping his arms outstretched, a large smile on his face.

"You're doing so well, Hamish!"

All trepidation now forgotten, Hamish reached his chubby arms out, trying to grab his father's hands as he took another excited step forward. Still unsteady on his own feet, though, he tripped, falling forward towards Sherlock.

Almost instantly, the detective reached forward, catching Hamish as he fell. He scooped him up, and stood up quickly, spinning the little boy around as he called, "Oh, Hamish! I'm so proud of you! You took your first steps! You did such a good job!"

"Daddy!" Hamish laughed, holding onto Sherlock's hands with his own small fingers.

The detective stopped spinning and pulled Hamish into a tight hug, pressing loving kisses to the little boy's hair and cheeks.

"Daddy," he giggled into the detective's chest. "'Ove, Daddy."

Sherlock smiled into Hamish's silky, auburn curls. "I love you too, Hamish," he murmured. "Very much." He sat down on the couch and leaned the little boy back in his arms. Tenderly, he moved forward and pressed a gentle kiss to the tip of Hamish's nose, secretly loving the way the little boy closed his eyes and giggled slightly.

"I'm very proud of you," he whispered, looking into Hamish's dark eyes.

Smiling sweetly, Hamish leaned forward, and reached both of his arms up until his tiny hands were resting on either side of the detective's cheeks.

"Hmm," he sighed, closing his eyes. "Daddy," he murmured, leaning forward, resting his head at the base of Sherlock's neck.

The detective chuckled lightly, and placed his hand on the back of Hamish's head as he pressed another kiss to the little boy's forehead.

"Would you like to try again?"

Hamish nodded against Sherlock's neck and leaned back, waiting to be placed on the ground.

"Here we go," Sherlock said as he slid off the couch, placing Hamish on the ground and holding the little boy up under the armpits. Keeping a firm hold around his middle, the detective waited until Hamish looked like he had gained enough balance.

"All right. I'm going to let you keep ahold of my hand, okay? And we're going to try to walk to the kitchen, all right?" he asked, squatting in front of Hamish.

"'Kay, Daddy," he replied quietly, now frightened again at the prospect of walking again.

"It's okay," Sherlock chuckled. "Here. Take my hand." He let go of Hamish's middle with one hand and moved it in front of the little boy. Hamish grabbed onto it eagerly, his chubby fingers wrapping around Sherlock's thumb.

Chuckling, the detective stood up, but had to bend over slightly so that he could keep his hand level with Hamish. He looked down and saw that Hamish did not yet reach his knee, but rather that the top of his head reached just a few inches below. He felt a tremendous amount of love swell in his chest upon seeing how truly small his son was.

Smiling at the thought, Sherlock took a small step forward, wrapping his large hand around Hamish's much smaller one as the little boy began taking wobbly steps forward.

"Very good, Hamish," he praised. "We're almost there, and you're doing a very good job!" As a thought occurred to him, he quickly pulled out his mobile from his pocket, and started filming Hamish as he continued toddling forward.

About halfway to the kitchen, the little boy seemed to become unsure. He stopped, squeezing his father's hand as he did so. "Daddy?" he asked worriedly.

"You're doing beautifully, Hamish," Sherlock replied, smiling warmly. "Keep going. You can do it."

Eventually, the two reached the kitchen, upon which Sherlock began happily praising the little boy again, kissing his cheeks and hugging him tightly.

"Let's send this to John, hmm?" he asked cheerily, already typing in the address on his phone.

Shortly thereafter, John's response came:

**Told you so. **

** JW**

Sherlock could practically see the doctor smirking, and he couldn't help but chuckle himself.

Smiling with Hamish in his arms, the detective tossed the phone away as he turned his attention back to his son.

"Try again?"

"Yes, Daddy!"

"All right, then," Sherlock answered happily as he bent down, placing the little boy on the ground, and reaching his hand out, allowing Hamish to grasp tightly onto his fingers for support. "Here we go…"


	14. Chapter Fourteen: Sick

**Hello readers! Okay, so I finally proofread this chapter! =) There were a whole bunch of mistakes... =/ So... Many apologizes for all of the mistakes that were in this. Much thanks to my followers, readers, and all of you wonderful people who have reviewed. Have a great rest of your weekend guys! =) Hope you enjoy (the new, revised version)! **

Chapter Fourteen: Sick

"All right, Hamish," Sherlock said, standing up from where he'd been sitting on the couch. "Time for your snack, and then we'll get back to learning about the colors, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish said, reaching his arms up towards Sherlock. "Up?"

"Up, what, Hamish?"

The little boy thought for a moment, letting his arms drop back onto the couch. "Oh!" he gasped excitedly, remembering the new word he was supposed to use.

"Up 'ease, Daddy!" he called excitedly, thrusting his arms forward again towards Sherlock.

"Very good!" the detective praised happily. Smiling, he leaned down, and allowed Hamish to wrap his small arms around his neck. Standing up again, he situated the little boy above his waist and walked into the kitchen, smiling slightly as Hamish began to twirl a lock of his hair between his chubby fingers.

He opened the refrigerator, careful to check beforehand that there were no experiments that might frighten Hamish. When he saw nothing too fearful, he opened the door all the way, looking for a snack for the little boy.

"Hmm… Do you want celery, strawberries, or apples, Hamish?" he asked, turning back to the little boy, whose attention was focused solely on playing with the detective's raven hair.

Chuckling, Sherlock reached in, and grabbed the strawberries, knowing that they were Hamish's favorite.

Deciding not to disturb the little boy, Sherlock moved over to the counter and began to wash and cut the fruit. He took little notice of the way Hamish began to tug absentmindedly at one of his ears, seeing how most of the little boy's attention was still focused on playing with his hair.

"Hamish?" he asked gently, pulling the little boy away from his thoughts.

The detective crossed over to the table, and sat down, deciding to keep Hamish with him rather than put him in his chair. He put the bowl of strawberries on the table, and set the little boy on his leg. Moving him forward until he was perched on the end of his knee, Sherlock wrapped one of arm around Hamish, keeping a firm hold around the little boy's middle with his large hand.

Upon seeing the fruit on the table, Hamish eagerly reached forward, grabbing a piece of strawberry in his hand, and shoved it hastily into his mouth. After swallowing, he reached forward again, grabbing more of the fruit in his chubby hands.

Smiling fondly, Sherlock tightened his grip around Hamish ever so slightly.

The smile, faded, however, as he saw the little boy begin to pull on his ears again. His small face scrunched together into a frown as he slowly continued to chew.

"Hamish?" Sherlock asked, now concerned. He turned the little boy around until they were face to face. "Do you ears hurt, Hamish?"

Still tugging at one of his ears, the little boy appeared to think for a moment, drawing his eyebrows together. Suddenly, a wave of tiredness washed over him, and he leaned forward, resting his head against Sherlock's stomach.

Slightly worried about Hamish's out-of-character actions, Sherlock pulled the little boy close, and bent down, speaking into Hamish's hair, "Are you tired, Hamish?" He glanced at the clock. 7:49. Usually Hamish started to tire out around 9:30. Never had he been tired this early before.

"Mmm, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly, nodding his head up and down against Sherlock's chest.

"Do you want to finish your strawberries?" the detective asked, running a soothing hand down the little boy's back.

"No, 'ease, Daddy," Hamish replied sleepily.

Despite feeling slightly anxious, Sherlock chuckled quietly.

"How about just a few more pieces, okay Hamish?"

The little boy thought for a moment, peering up at his father from where he was resting.

"Mmm… 'Kay, Daddy…" he replied eventually.

"Good boy," Sherlock said thankfully. He leaned down and gently kissed Hamish's forehead, smiling at the ticklish feeling of his son's auburn hair brushing against his lips and nose.

Slowly, Sherlock turned Hamish's small form around until the little boy was facing forward towards the table again. The detective wrapped his hand protectively around Hamish's stomach, scooting the little boy close to his chest and stomach, rather than sit him on his knee. Hamish leaned back, letting his head rest against Sherlock's chest.

Using his free hand, the detective grabbed a piece of strawberry and tenderly fed it to Hamish. He waited patiently for the little boy to finish chewing, and then continued, feeding him a few more pieces before stopping. He stood up, lifting Hamish as he did so, and moved the little boy's small form until he was resting just above his waist.

Suddenly, all of Hamish's tiredness seemed to dissipate, and the little boy sat up, grasping tightly onto Sherlock's shirt with one hand. He watched contently as his father moved the bowl of strawberries towards the sink.

"Daddy?" he asked. Upon hearing the little boy, Sherlock stopped moving the bowl, and turned his attention to Hamish. Instantly, he took notice of how the little boy appeared to be more energetic. He felt a small wave of relief was over him. He'd been worrying over nothing; Hamish was fine.

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Daddy?" the little boy asked again, this time leaning forward slightly, keeping ahold of his father's shirt with one hand and pointing haphazardly at the bowl of strawberries with the other. Subconsciously, the detective tightened his grip about Hamish's small body as he felt the little boy lean forward precariously.

"Oh! Yes of course you can have some more. Here." Smiling, Sherlock moved the bowl closer to Hamish, who eagerly reached forward, unsteadily grabbing a few pieces of fruit as he did so.

"'Kay, Daddy," he said happily, trying not to drop the pieces of strawberry.

Laughing at his son's efforts, Sherlock put the bowl in the sink and placed his hand under Hamish's.

"Put them here," he chuckled, nodding at his open hand.

Hamish looked at his father's outstretched hand, then at the detective's face, and then back to his hand.

"Oh… 'Kay, Daddy," he said, understanding what he was to do.

Very delicately, as if he was worried he might hurt either his father's hand or the already-crushed strawberries between his fingers, Hamish moved his tiny hands towards Sherlock's and tenderly placed the pieces of strawberries on the detective's palm. Focusing intently on the fruit, he leaned forward, and, very seriously, began to situate the fruit, delicately moving them apart from each other with his chubby fingers.

The detective stared fondly at the little boy, the corner of his mouth turning up slightly as he felt Hamish's tiny fingernails brush over his palm.

Satisfied with his work, the little boy gave a slight nod of his head, and turned back to Sherlock, smiling up at the detective, before turning back to his father's outstretched hand and eating the rest of the fruit, one piece at a time.

"Good job, Hamish," Sherlock praised, tenderly smoothing down some of the little boy's unruly curls as he did so. "All right, then. How about some quick television before bed, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish replied happily, practically bouncing in Sherlock's arms. Chuckling quietly, he moved out of the kitchen, and sat down on the couch, grabbing the remote as he did so.

* * *

Shortly after the cartoon (chosen by Hamish) had started, Sherlock began to notice that the little boy was tugging at his ears again. He also appeared to be becoming sleepy once again. Yawning widely, Hamish, who had been sitting up on Sherlock's stomach, leaned forward, lying down on his father's chest. His eyes became heavy as he continued to watch the cartoon from where he was resting on Sherlock's chest.

Trying not to worry too much, Sherlock placed his hand on Hamish's small back, rubbing his thumb back and forth as the little boy breathed heavily against him.

Upon feeling the soothing feel of his father's hand, Hamish's eyelids became heavy, and he fought to keep them open, trying to focus on the television.

Sherlock smiled fondly as he saw how the little boy's eyelids fell shut, and then opened quickly as he tried to stay awake.

"Come on, Hamish," the detective sighed, sitting up from his position on the couch, keeping his hand firmly on the little boy's back. "Time for bed."

"Mmm... 'Kay, Daddy..." Hamish sighed, nodding against Sherlock's chest, pressing his face into the soft fabric.

Slowly, cuddling the little boy close, Sherlock stood up, and began to walk towards his room, bouncing gently as he did so. He began to rub his hand slowly up and down Hamish's back.

Once in his room, the detective walked over to the cot, and gently placed Hamish inside, trying not to disturb him too much.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly as he felt Sherlock pull his arms away and out of the cot. He reached up, grabbing one of his father's fingers as he did so.

"Yes?" Sherlock murmured, leaning in towards the little boy. He placed his free hand on the side of Hamish's small head, tenderly twirling a lock of he little boy's auburn hair between his fingers.

"Hmm…" Hamish sighed, already falling asleep.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured bending down to press a kiss to the little boy's forehead. "Sleep well."

The detective tried pulling his hand away, but when Hamish's small finger remained tightly wrapped around his own, he decided just to lie down on the bed, keeping his hand inside the cot. He smiled fondly at the sensation as Hamish's fingers tightened slightly, and the little boy let out a content sigh.

* * *

"Daddy?"

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of Hamish's small voice calling out in the night. There was something different, though, Sherlock noticed. It sounded as if Hamish was in pain.

Instantly, Sherlock sat up, rolling over on the bed, and hurried towards the cot. He looked in, and even in the darkness, he could see Hamish's little face scrunched up in discomfort.

Frantically, Sherlock reached in and pulled the little boy out as tenderly as he could.

"Daddy," Hamish whimpered. Eyes scrunched shut, he reached forward blindly, trying to hold onto Sherlock. "Daddy," he cried again, only adding to his father's alarm.

Quickly, Sherlock pulled Hamish close, hurriedly running a hand over the little boy's face and back, trying to understand what was wrong. However, he found no evidence of external injury.

Trying to stay calm, so as not to add to Hamish's discomfort further, Sherlock hugged the little boy close to his chest. Keeping a firm hold of the little boy, the detective began to gently smooth his hand over his son's auburn curls, hoping to provide some sort of comfort for the little boy.

"Hamish? What's wrong? Does something hurt?" he asked quietly. He felt the little boy nod against his chest.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whimpered quietly, talking into Sherlock's shirt.

"Do you think you could show me where it's hurting?" the detective asked tenderly, rubbing a comforting hand up and down Hamish's tiny back. He started to move the little boy away, trying to place him on the bed.

"Noo," Hamish moaned. Shaking his head, the little boy pressed himself further into Sherlock, clinging to the detective with his small fists.

"Okay, okay," Sherlock said quickly, clutching the little boy back to his chest.

Pressing his small form against his father, Hamish shivered—almost violently—in Sherlock's arms, only adding to the detective's anxiousness.

"Are you cold, Hamish?" he asked, struggling to hide his worry.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied sadly as another shiver coursed through his small body.

"Okay," Sherlock murmured to himself, trying to figure out what to do. "Hamish? I need to lay you down, okay?"

The little boy sniffled, looking up at his father. He nodded slowly. "'Kay…"

Tenderly, trying to keep his arms wrapped around Hamish as much as he could, so as to give him some sort of warmth, Sherlock placed the little boy on the bed.. He leaned down, and pressed his lips to Hamish's forehead, testing for a temperature. The little boy's skin was incredibly hot.

"Oh, Hamish," he sighed sadly, leaning back. "Hamish, I'm sorry, but I need to take your shirt and trousers off, okay? We need to cool you down, all right?" He moved down, slowly easing the little boy's shirt off.

"No… 'Ease, Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, trying feebly to push his father's hands away.

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a stab of sadness rush through him upon hearing his son's tiny voice. He felt his eyes sting as he stared down at Hamish's sad face.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, silently telling himself to continue. He quickly pulled off Hamish's shirt and pants, and then wrapped his arms back around the little boy, cradling him in the crook of his arm. Hamish sighed, glad to be enveloped in the warmth of Sherlock's arms.

"Hamish, can you show me where it hurts?"

"Ouch?" the little boy asked quietly, peering up at Sherlock.

"Yes. Yes, can you show me where the 'ouch' is?"

Nodding slowly, Hamish took one hand, and pointed to his stomach and then began pulling on his ear.

"Your stomach and ears hurt?"

"'Es, Daddy. Ouch." Frowning, Hamish started tugging on one of his ears, like he had earlier that day.

"Yeah, I know. Ouch…" Sherlock murmured, more to himself, worried and unsure about what he should do. "We're going to have to go and wake John up, okay?" The detective turned his attention back to Hamish, who was staring up expectantly at him, his small lips drawn down in a sad frown. He gave a little nod of his head in response.

Trying to move Hamish as little as possible, Sherlock stood up off the bed. Moving swiftly, he left the bedroom and hurried up the stairs to John's room.

"John?" he whispered loudly, swinging open the door. "John?" he called, louder this time. When his flat mate remained asleep, Sherlock hurried over the bed, keeping Hamish close, and gently shook the doctor's arm.

"John? John, wake up."

"Hmm? What? Sherlock?" he asked groggily, sitting up. His eyes fell upon a rather ill looking Hamish clutched tightly to his flat mate's chest.

"Is everything all right?" he asked, turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"Hamish is sick. His ears and stomach are hurting him and he has a high fever," the detective said frantically, now unable to control his anxiety. "And I don't know what to do to make it stop—"

"Okay, okay, okay," John said quickly, getting out of bed. He placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherlock, he probably just has an ear infection. It's very common among young kids; it's nothing to worry about at all. We'll just need to get him some Tylenol to help with the pain and fever," he said calmly, giving Sherlock a reassuring smile. "Let me feel," he said, placing his hand on the little boy's forehead. His eyebrows pulled together slightly upon feeling how warm Hamish was.

"What?" Sherlock questioned anxiously upon seeing the look on John's face. "What's wrong, John?"

"Nothing, hopefully. He's just really hot, that's all. But it should be fine. Don't worry," he added reassuringly. "I don't know if we have any infant Tylenol, though. We'll have to go check." He nodded towards the doorway and exited the room, walking down the stairs, Sherlock right at his heels, clutching Hamish close.

The trio entered the kitchen. "Sherlock, get him a sippy cup and fill it with water. See if he'll drink it," John ordered as he began looking through the kitchen, trying to find some Tylenol for Hamish.

Sherlock found one of the little boy's cups, and quickly filled it with water. Cup in hand, he left the kitchen and sat down on the couch, cradling Hamish in his arms.

"Hamish?" he asked. "Can you try and drink this for me? We're going to see if it helps, okay?"

The little boy closed his eyes together for a moment, tugging at one of his ears again.

"Ouch, Daddy," he mumbled, frowning as he pulled at his ear.

"I know, Hamish," Sherlock replied quietly, staring down at his son with sad eyes. "I'm going to try and make it better, okay?"

"Mmm… 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered quietly, opening his eyes to look up at his father. Sherlock couldn't help but notice the way the little boy's eyes were glazed over. He lowered the cup, placing it in Hamish's mouth. Hesitantly, the little boy began drinking, slowly sucking at the liquid.

"I'm going to have to run out and get some," John called. Sherlock looked up, watching as his flat mate emerged from the kitchen, already pulling on his jacket.

"I shouldn't be long, okay? In the meantime, we need to try and get his temperature down. You're going to need to give him a cold bath. He's not going to like it, okay, Sherlock? But we need to cool him down. I'll be back as soon as I can. If anything happens, ring me?"

John's instructions had only added to Sherlock anxiety. He let out an unstable breath. "Yes, John," he sighed shakily.

"Right," the doctor said, giving a slight nod of his head. He turned around and hurried out the front door, leaving Sherlock alone with Hamish.

"I'm sorry you're sick, Hamish," he murmured, leaning down to press a tender kiss to the little boy's nose.

Hamish closed his eyes, sighing quietly at his father's kiss.

Sherlock waited patiently for Hamish to finish drinking the water, holding the little boy close.

"Okay, Hamish," he said, pulling the cup out of Hamish's mouth. "Come on. We have to go take a bath, all right?"

"'Kay, Daddy."

Sherlock picked the little boy up and moved to his room, walking into the bathroom. He started the water running, trying to make it as warm as possible for Hamish. Letting the tub fill up, and still holding the little boy close to his chest, Sherlock reached under the sink, grabbing some of Hamish's toys, hoping they might help to take his mind off the cold water.

He turned back to the tub and switched the water off, tossing the toys in.

Sherlock quickly discarded Hamish's nappy and sat down on the ground, sitting the little boy in his lap.

"Hamish, the water is going to be a little cold, all right? But it's going to help make you better, okay?" he said tenderly, staring sadly into Hamish's dark green eyes.

"'Etter?" the little boy asked quietly, looking up at Sherlock with heavy eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered back.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sighed sadly, nodding his small head.

Remaining seated, Sherlock lifted the little boy up underneath the armpits and moved him over the water. He quickly lowered the little boy into the cool water, feeling a painful amount of guilt run through his body as he saw the look on Hamish's face upon being lowered into the cold water.

"Daddy!" he gasped, gripping tightly onto Sherlock's hand, desperately trying to get away from the freezing water enveloping his body. "No, Daddy! 'Ease!"

Upon hearing Hamish's cries, Sherlock felt a tremendous amount of pain swell in his chest; he couldn't breath; it seemed his whole body was aching with guilt and sadness.

"I'm sorry, Hamish," he breathed, trying to catch his breath.

"Daddy," the little boy whimpered, starting to cry. Another wave of guilt and sadness washed over him as Hamish shivered violently, tears streaming down his small face.

"Just a few more minutes, okay?" Sherlock begged. "Would you like to play with some of your toys?" he asked feebly, reaching down to the other end of the tub and grabbing a small plastic boat. He placed the toy in front of Hamish, who, after a moment's pause, reached down and began playing with the small toy.

Sherlock managed to keep Hamish in the water for several more minutes before the little boy grew tired of playing with the toys and remembered how cold he was.

"Daddy?" he asked, stretching his small body, trying to pull himself out of the water.

Sherlock quickly found a towel and plucked Hamish out of the tub, wrapping the warm fabric tightly around him.

"Ahh," Hamish sighed upon feeling the warmth of the towel surround his small body.

"You did such a good job, Hamish," Sherlock praised, whispering into his son's hair as he hugged the little boy close. He turned his head, and pressed a loving kiss to Hamish's forehead. Moving back, he placed his hand to the side of Hamish's face, stroking his thumb over the little boy's smooth cheek.

"Daddy," Hamish sighed. Closing his eyes, the little boy leaned into his father's touch.

Sherlock quickly dried Hamish off, and put a clean nappy on, but decided to keep him undressed, as he was still quite hot. He began to slowly pace around the flat, waiting anxiously for John to return. Hamish wrapped his tiny arms around the detective's neck, resting his head against Sherlock's collarbone.

"Daddy?" Hamish whimpered, talking against his father's neck.

"What is it, Hamish?" the detective replied worriedly.

"Ouch," Hamish said, pointing to his stomach. His eyebrows pulled together as if he was confused.

"Hamish?"

Suddenly, the little boy's whole body lurched forward, as if to throw up. Knowing what was happening, Sherlock hurried into the kitchen, grabbed a bowl and situated it just as the little boy convulsed again, throwing up this time.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock said sadly, rubbing circles up and down Hamish's back, trying to comfort the little boy.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried, tears falling from his eyes. He turned around, and pressed his face against Sherlock's chest, staining the fabric with his tears.

"Shhh," the detective whispered, kissing Hamish's head and rubbing his hand up and down the little boy's back. "I know. I know... I'm so sorry," he whispered, feeling that same sensation of guilt and sadness come over him.

"So sorry..." he murmured, talking into Hamish's hair. He felt his eyes sting as he heard the little boy sobbing against his chest. "I'm so sorry, Hamish," he whispered as a single tear fell from his own eyes.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried, sobs shaking his body.

"I don't know what to do!" Sherlock cried to himself, desperately trying to comfort his son.

Just then, he heard the sound of the front door opening.

"John," he sighed, relieved, and hoping that the medicine his flat mate had would help to ease some of his son's pain.

"Daddy!" Hamish sobbed again as Sherlock stood up, hurrying over to the doorway.

"Hey!" John called, reaching the top of the stairs. His gaze moved, glancing back and forth between a very anxious-looking Sherlock and the sobbing Hamish clutched close to his chest.

"What happened?" he asked, hurrying into the kitchen with the medicine.

"He threw up," Sherlock replied tersely, rubbing his hand up and down Hamish's back again. "Shhh," he whispered, kissing the little boy's forehead. "John's back, and he's got some medicine that should help make you better, okay?"

Hamish looked up at his father, his cheeks flushed and wet from the tears. "'Etter?" he sniffled.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured sadly. He moved his hand, and began to gently brush away the tears from his son's face, feeling another pang of sadness course through him.

"Here, Hame. I need you to drink this for me," John said, coming over to Sherlock and Hamish, a spoonful of medicine in hand.

Still sniffling, the little boy looked up at Sherlock for reassurance before turning back to John and opening his mouth slightly in preparation.

John quickly slid the spoon into Hamish's mouth, pouring the liquid in. The little boy swallowed, making a face as he did so.

"No, Daddy," he mumbled, turning around in Sherlock's arms. The detective couldn't help but laugh out loud at the look on the little boy's face, though Hamish barely noticed. He reached his chubby arms up, wrapping them feebly around his father's neck, and pressed his cheek against the base of Sherlock's neck, sighing tiredly as he did so.

Swaying slightly, Sherlock turned his head to the side and pressed another kiss to the little boy's forehead. Tilting his head to the side, the detective let his cheek rest tenderly on top of Hamish's head, breathing in, allowing the sweet smell of his son and the feel of his silky hair against his cheek calm him.

He turned his attention back to John. "Now what?" he asked, calming down slightly.

"Now all we can do is wait, unfortunately," John replied, giving a slight nod of his, staring sadly at the little boy.

* * *

Several hours later, after Hamish had thrown up several more times, an incredibly frustrated and shirtless Sherlock was pacing the flat, clutching the little boy, who was crying, close to his chest. A very tired looking John was sat on the couch, running his fingers through his short hair.

"You're a doctor, John!" Sherlock hissed. "You should be able to fix him! Look at him, he's—he's—" Upon hearing Hamish cry even louder, Sherlock quickly stopped speaking, and moved the little boy, cradling him in the crook of his arm.

"Shhh," he whispered calmly, brushing his thumb over the little boy's cheek. "It's okay, Hamish. Daddy's here." He continued to tenderly move his thumb across Hamish's cheek, as it seemed to calm him down considerably.

"Sorry, John," he muttered quickly. "It's just—I can't do anything! He's in pain and I can't _do_ anything! I can solve impossible mysteries, but I can't stop him from hurting. It's just so frustrating!" he ranted, trying to keep his voice as quiet as possible for his son's sake.

"Daddy?" Hamish whimpered weakly.

"Yes, Hamish? What is it? Is everything okay? Does something hurt?" he asked frantically, before noticing that Hamish had stopped crying.

"No, Daddy," he replied feebly, blinking slowly up at Sherlock. Tiredly, and with heavy eyelids, now exhausted from the previous hours, Hamish reached up towards Sherlock. "Up?" he asked, his voice weak and raw from crying and throwing up.

"Of course," Sherlock whispered, so quietly, he wasn't even sure John heard. Gingerly, he moved the little boy, hugging him close to his bare chest. He noticed how Hamish's skin felt much cooler to the touch. Sighing in relief, he rubbed the palm of his hand up and down Hamish's bare back, smiling for the first time in several hours.

"I think the worst is over, Hamish," he murmured happily, pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the little boy's warm cheek.

John cleared his throat, standing up off the couch. Tiredly, he began walking towards the stairs, thoroughly exhausted from the night's endeavors. "I'm off to bed," he said to Sherlock, "I still have to work tomorrow." He nodded at Hamish. "I think he should be fine for the rest of the night. Poor thing is probably exhausted." he said, peering sadly at the little boy in his flat mate's arms. "Goodnight, Hame. Hope you feel better, little man," he said, quickly kissing the little boy on the cheek. He continued walking towards the stairs, calling back, "'Night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John. Thank you again for all of your help."

"Mmm,"the doctor replied tiredly, smiling back at his flat mate before hurrying up the stairs, anxious to be able to sleep.

Keeping one hand protectively on Hamish's back, Sherlock walked into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him, and laid down on the bed. He placed the little boy so he was sitting up on his stomach. Hamish peered at the detective with tired eyes.

"Hamish," Sherlock began, absentmindedly twirling a lock of the little boy's hair between his fingers. "You are such a brave and strong little boy. I'm so proud of you, Hamish." Sherlock paused, taking a deep breath, and closing his eyes. "I'm sorry you got sick, hmm? But hopefully tomorrow will be much better, okay?" he whispered, opening his eyes once again to peer at the little boy lying on his chest.

Eyebrows pulled together, Hamish scooted himself up towards Sherlock's face. He placed one tiny hand against the detective's cheek for balance.

"Ouch 'etter, Daddy?" he asked quietly, a small glint of hope in his deep green eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, staring intently into his son's eyes. He reached up and tenderly brushed away some of Hamish's curls, smiling sadly at the little boy's tired face. "Yes, Hamish... All better."

"Oh!" the little boy sighed happily. He leaned forward, and placed his head against Sherlock's cheek. "Daddy..." he whispered, draping one arm around the detective's neck as he did so. "'Nigh, Daddy?" Using all of his energy, Hamish lifted his head up to look his father.

"Of course, Hamish. You can sleep now..."

Smiling sadly, Sherlock moved Hamish onto his chest, placing one hand on the back of the little boy's head.

Smiling contently, Hamish leaned into his father's comforting skin, snuggling his head against the base of Sherlock's neck. He reached up, haphazardly trying to find the detective's face.

"'Nigh, Daddy..." The little boy's small cheek moved against his father's skin as he spoke. "'Ove..." he murmured. Shifting slightly, Hamish snuggled himself against the base of his father's collarbone, his head fitting almost perfectly into the space.

"Daddy..." he sighed, contently, allowing his full weight to lean into Sherlock as a wave of tiredness washed over him.

Still smiling slightly, Sherlock reached up, and took ahold of Hamish's tiny hand, which was resting upon his jaw. Wrapping his fingers around his son's tiny hands, Sherlock moved Hamish's small fingers to his lips.

"Goodnight, Hamish... I love you, too," he whispered before pressing a tender kiss to the little boy's fingers.

"Mmm..." Hamish sighed, smiling against Sherlock's skin.

"I love you so much..." He pressed another quick kiss to the little boy's fingertips. Drifting off into sleep, Hamish subconsciously wrapped his tiny hand around one of his father's fingers.

Smiling lovingly at the little boy snuggled close to his chest, Sherlock wrapped his hand around Hamish's small fingers, covering his son's entire hand with his own. He moved down, placing both their hands on his chest, then flattened his hand out, keeping Hamish's trapped safely underneath his own. He couldn't help but sigh happily as the little boy's hand rested perfectly in the gap at the bottom of his neck. In his sleep-induced state, Hamish began to move one of his small fingers slowly against his father's skin, absentmindedly tracing the gap he'd traced so many times before.

Sherlock smiled, now very content that Hamish's sickness was over and that the little boy was snuggled close to his chest. Turning his head ever so slightly, Sherlock pressed one last kiss to his son's forehead, this one more loving and more tender than all the rest.

Feeling his own tiredness wash over him, Sherlock moved his free hand and placed it tenderly on Hamish's small back, still amazed at how soft and smooth his son's skin was.

Slowly rubbing his thumb over Hamish smooth skin, he whispered again, "Goodnight, Hamish...Sleep well..."

And with that, both father and son, wrapped in each other's embraces quickly fell asleep.


	15. Chapter Fifteen: Mummy?

Chapter Fifteen: Mummy?

Sherlock was awoken by a stirring on his chest. Groggily, he opened his eyes and peered down at Hamish, who had just shifted slightly on his chest, but had not woken up yet. The sunlight was streaming through the window, making the little boy's already-pale skin look white.

Trying not to wake Hamish, Sherlock shifted, the memories of last night rushing back. Remembering that his son's hand was resting sweetly against his chest, the detective squeezed his hand slightly, wrapping his fingers around Hamish's hand, which was still resting at the base of his neck. He closed his eyes, sighing in reassurance upon feeling his son's hand beneath his own.

"Good morning, Hamish," he whispered quietly, opening his eyes, and giving the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek.

"Mmm… Daddy?" Hamish murmured, shifting again as he did so. The little boy slowly opened his eyes and peered up at Sherlock, but quickly squeezed them shut again upon seeing how bright it was. Groaning quietly, he shoved his face into Sherlock's neck, trying to get away from the bright light.

"No, Daddy," he mumbled, his tiny voice muffled slightly as he spoke against the detective's skin.

Sherlock chuckled happily and brushed his hand once over the little boy's bare back.

"Morning," he chuckled, yawning widely as he sat up. He felt Hamish giggle against his skin.

"Daddy," he laughed happily, pulling his head away from Sherlock's neck. Allowing his eyes to adjust to the light, Hamish squinted up at the detective, pushing his hands against Sherlock's collarbone in an effort to stand up.

Smiling, Sherlock held Hamish up, keeping the boy steady by holding him around the middle with one hand.

Now almost fully awake and even with his father's face, Hamish reached forward, flattening the palms of his small hands against Sherlock's cheeks.

"Morn' Daddy," he said, smiling as he stared into the detective's grey eyes.

"Good morning, Hamish," Sherlock answered happily. "Are you feeing better?"

Hands still on his father's face, Hamish nodded happily. "'Etter, Daddy," he stated firmly. "Ew…" he added, sticking his bottom lip out as he look earnestly at Sherlock.

The detective couldn't help but laugh out loud at his son's comment.

"Yes," he chuckled, brushing the back of his hand across Hamish's forehead. "Ew… Are your ears still hurting you?" he added, twirling some of the little boy's silky hair between his fingers.

"Ouch?"

"Yes. Ouch?"

Hamish thought for a moment. His small fingers curled against Sherlock's cheeks as he thought. Eventually, he removed one hand and tugged at one of his ears.

"Your ears still hurt, yes?"

"'Es, Daddy."

"Well… I say we go and talk to John and see if we can't just help with that, hmm?"

"'Es, 'ease, Daddy," Hamish replied, nodding his head solemnly as he did so.

"All right. Let's go," Sherlock said, getting off the bed. Hamish's hands were still resting on his face.

* * *

It took several days for Hamish to fully bounce back from the sickness, but very quickly afterwards, he returned to his calm, happy self.

It was soon after that Sherlock was resting on the couch.

"No… It can't be… Well, I mean I suppose it could be. The car… His car…" Sherlock mumbled, eyes closed, hands steepled under his chin. Hamish was sat on the detective's stomach, examining his own tiny hands, eyebrows pulled together, bottom lip stuck out in concentration. He was gently tracing his own fingernails when Sherlock began talking to himself. Hands now forgotten, Hamish turned, his attention falling upon the detective.

"Yes! Yes, the car! Wait… No. No! Ugh! This is so infuriating!" he cried, letting out a disgruntled sound at his frustration.

Hamish, who had previously been entranced by his father's deductions, giggled loudly upon hearing the noise Sherlock made.

Almost having forgotten Hamish was sitting on his stomach, Sherlock's eyes flew open, his thoughts halting to a stop upon hearing his son's giggling.

"Oh," he sighed, pulling his hands apart as he peered down at Hamish. Still frustrated by the case, he ran his hands through his hair, ruffling the dark curls as he did so, which only made Hamish laugh further, the light sound filling the quiet flat.

Smiling at his son, who was practically gasping for breath, Sherlock reached down, picked up Hamish and lifted him into the air, holding him above his head.

"Is that funny, Hamish? Hmm? Do you think I'm silly?!" Sherlock cried playfully, over-exaggerating the word as he bounced Hamish, who was laughing loudly, gripping tightly onto his father's hands.

"Daddy!" he squealed happily, laughing down at his father.

"Come here!" Sherlock laughed, grinning widely at his son. Making quiet kissing noises, the detective lowered his arms until Hamish was hovering just above his face.

"Mwah!" he exclaimed comically, pressing a fun kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Who's my little boy?" he laughed, pressing ticklish kisses to Hamish's face, not caring how silly he sounded.

"Daddy!" the little boy cried happily, trying to shove his father away. He pressed both of his hands against Sherlock's lips, attempting to stop the stream of kisses.

Laughing heartily at his son's efforts, the detective parted his lips just slightly.

"Om nom nom!" he said, pretending to eat Hamish's fingers.

"Ah! No! No 'ease, Daddy!" the little boy exclaimed, quickly withdrawing his fingers from Sherlock's lips.

"I'm going to eat you!" the detective exclaimed comically, sitting Hamish on his stomach. He bent down, pressing his lips to his son's stomach and feet.

"I've got your toes!"

"What?! No! Daddy!"

Laughing, Sherlock withdrew his head, allowing Hamish to catch his breath.

Smiling widely at the giggling little boy, he gently brushed away some of Hamish's dark hair.

"Noo," he sighed happily, smiling down at his son, "I could never eat you." He paused, letting his hand rest on Hamish's stomach. "You'd be too sweet," he finished happily.

Giggling, Hamish peered up at his father, a sweet smile on his face.

"Up 'ease?" he asked quietly, stretching his arms up towards Sherlock.

Obliging, the detective pulled Hamish up, wrapping one arm around the little boy. He placed his hand on the back of Hamish's head.

"'Ove, Daddy," Hamish murmured, talking into Sherlock's neck. He turned his head and pressed a light kiss to his father's jaw. Then, smiling widely, he took one hand and rubbed it against the detective's stomach, attempting to tickle him.

"I love you, too, Hamish," Sherlock said, laughing heartily as his son tried to tickle his stomach. "Oh no!" he cried dramatically, pretending to try and push Hamish's hands away. "Please stop! I can't take it!"

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy giggled, pulling his hand away. He peered up at Sherlock, eyes bright and a large smile on his face.

No longer laughing, but still beaming widely, Sherlock stared back down at Hamish. He froze as he looked into the little boy's dark eyes. This little boy—this incredible, tiny human being—his son—had truly changed him. _His son_… The words still made his whole body flood with love. He felt his breath catch in his throat, as it had so many times before.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked, pulling his father out of his reverie.

"Oh! Yes. Sorry, Hamish," he apologized, finding his breath again. "Well! What do you say we go for a little walk, hmm? It's getting colder, so we should go out as often as possible, and I need to clear my head, anyways. What do you think?"

"'Es, 'ease, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly, still smiling.

The warmth still warming his chest, Sherlock bent down and lifted Hamish up, moving him to the ground. He waited patiently, holding the little boy up until he was sure Hamish was balanced.

"Ready?" he asked.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good," Sherlock smiled. He stood up, but remained slightly hunched over so that Hamish could hold onto his hand.

"Now, I believe John took you out last… Hmm. You wouldn't happen to know where he put your coat, would you?"

Still holding tightly onto Sherlock's hand, the little boy thought for a second.

"Daddy room?" he asked, rather than stated.

"Let's go see." Taking small steps forward, Sherlock guided Hamish towards his room, gazing lovingly at the little boy as he walk forward, wobbling slightly.

* * *

After checking almost everywhere in the flat, the two eventually found that Hamish's small coat was underneath Sherlock's, hanging on the door. The detective knelt down, quickly pulled on the little boy's coat, and then stood up, pulling on his own as he did so.

"Okay," he said, giving Hamish his hand once again. "Here we go." The little boy began to walk forward, chewing his bottom lip as he did so. He held tightly onto his father's hand as he made his way towards the stairs.

Once at the landing, Sherlock kept one hand wrapped around Hamish's and used the other to undo the safety gate.

"Do you want to try the stairs today, Hamish?" he asked, turning his attention back to the little boy.

Upon seeing the utterly petrified look on Hamish's face, he chuckled and knelt down, almost at eye level with the little boy.

"Hamish," he laughed, "there's nothing to be afraid of. I'll be right with you the whole time. See?"

Remaining in his crouched position, Sherlock took one small step down until he was resting on the first stair step.

"You're sure you don't want to try?" he asked again, the corners of his lips turning upwards as Hamish began to fervently shake his head back and forth.

"Okay, okay," he laughed, shaking his head. "No stairs today." Sherlock smiled warmly, hoping to reassure the little boy. He opened his arms. "Come here," he said softly.

Hamish hurried forward, practically falling into his father's arms.

"Daddy," he sighed in relief. Still quite frightened by the stairs, though, he turned pressing his face into the soft fabric of Sherlock's coat.

Chuckling at his son, the detective placed a protective hand on the little boy's back as he quickly descended the stairs. Knowing that Hamish would probably not want to walk down the stairs outside, he opened the door, clearing the few steps that led away from the flat.

"Okay, Hamish. No more stairs," he said, smoothing down some of the little boy's unruly curls.

Cautiously, Hamish pulled his head out of Sherlock's coat, looking down to check that there were no more stairs.

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy!" he said cheerfully.

Chuckling, Sherlock placed Hamish on the ground. "Ready?" he asked, holding his hand out in front of the little boy.

"'Es, Daddy." An eager look on his face, Hamish reached forward, wrapping his chubby fingers around Sherlock's thumb.

Making sure Hamish was balanced, the detective stood up, closing his fingers around Hamish's small hand.

By now, having taken many walks together, a sort of tradition had formed between the detective and his son: the two would sit on a bench together and Hamish would point to a random passerby, upon which Sherlock would riddle off deductions, much to the delight of Hamish.

Seeing as Hamish had only taken a few walks so far where he was able to walk himself, it took much longer to reach the bench than usual.

"You can do it, Hamish! Almost there," Sherlock encouraged, noticing how the little boy was slowing down.

"'Kay, Daddy," he replied, walking as quickly as he could.

Shortly after, the two finally reached the bench. "Okay, Hamish. Up we go," Sherlock said, sitting down, and pulling the little boy up onto his lap.

"Hmm," Hamish sighed, glad to have a break from walking. He leaned back, snuggling into Sherlock.

"Okay," the detective sighed, wrapping one hand around the little boy's middle. "Who first, Hamish?"

"Ummmm… Them!" Hamish said excitedly, pointing to a woman walking on the other side of the street.

"_Her_," Sherlock corrected lightheartedly, smiling fondly at Hamish. "Okay," he said, turning his attention to the woman Hamish had pointed to. He raked his eyes over her as she walked briskly down the street.

"All right. Well, for starters, she's running late for work, her boyfriend just broke up with her; she has still yet to notice that she's wearing two different parts of a suit, and she smokes. And what does that mean, Hamish?" he asked, turning his attention to the little boy.

"Ew!" he replied firmly, giving a terse nod of his head.

"Very good! Ew."

Sherlock had been ordered by John to teach Hamish that smoking was unhealthy and bad, in the hope that the little boy would not follow in his father's footsteps.

"All right. Next one."

* * *

"Okay. Last one, Hamish," Sherlock said, rubbing his thumb across the little boy's stomach.

"Hmm… Them," he said decidedly, pointing to a man who was walking slowly towards them.

"Oh! Good one, Hamish!" Sherlock exclaimed excitedly. Seeing as how the man was quickly approaching them, the detective leaned down, whispering into Hamish's ear. He whispered something just as the man hurried by, which sent the little boy into a fit of giggles.

"Daddy silly!" he laughed, turning around to hug the detective around the middle. He pressed his small form into Sherlock.

Chuckling, the detective wrapped his arms around Hamish in a hug. "All right. Time to go home, Hamish. Do you want to walk or shall I carry you?" he asked, leaning down to talk into the little boy's auburn hair.

"'Ulk, 'ease," he replied quietly.

"All right. You're sure?" Sherlock replied, ready to place the little boy on the ground.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied, looking contently into his father's face.

Smiling fondly, Sherlock placed Hamish on the ground, stood up, and lowered his hand. The two started home.

It took about five minutes before Sherlock felt a gentle tugging on his hand. He stopped, and turned back to look at Hamish.

"Daddy? Up 'ease?" he asked tiredly, squeezing his fingers as he pulled down on his father's hand.

"Of course," Sherlock said gently, smiling knowingly down at the little boy. He bent down, pulling Hamish up and onto his chest. Placing one hand on the back of his son's head, Sherlock continued to walk back towards the flat.

"Ta, Daddy," Hamish murmured, snuggling into his father's warm embrace.

"You're very welcome, Hamish."

Hamish remained snuggled tightly against his father as they walked home, peering at his passing surroundings with wide, curious eyes.

With Sherlock walking at his normal pace, the two soon reached the flat. Hamish continued to look around as his father began to unlock the door to the flat. He peered over the detective's shoulder. His eyes fell upon a woman walking with her daughter across the other side of the street. The little boy's eyebrows pulled together as he noticed the two were holding hands.

"Daddy?" he asked hurriedly, tapping on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes, Hamish?" he asked, looking at Hamish with questioning eyes.

In response, the little boy pointed hastily at the woman and the little girl across the street.

Sherlock's gaze followed the little boy's finger and fell upon the woman and her daughter.

"What about them, Hamish?" he asked, confused as to what his son was wanting.

"What, Daddy?" he asked, an almost desperate look on his face. Sherlock stared at the woman, suddenly understanding what Hamish was asking.

"Oh. That's a little girl with her mummy," he said quietly, turning his attention back to Hamish.

"Mummy?" he repeated slowly, an almost dazed look on his face. "What mummy?" he asked, still staring at the woman.

"Umm… Well…" Sherlock had been hoping to avoid having this conversation with Hamish until he was old enough to understand the extent of what the word 'mother' entailed, but he knew the little boy would be persistent. He pushed open the door to the flat, deciding just to give the little boy a brief overview of what a mother was and did.

He quickly pulled of Hamish's coat, hanging it up on the door, and then undid his own, placing it over Hamish's. Keeping Hamish close, he sat down on the floor, crossing his legs. He placed the little boy, who still appeared to be bewildered, on his lap.

"Hamish," he said, slowly, drawing the little boy's attention to his face.

"Oh," he said quietly. "'Es, Daddy. What mummy?" he asked gently.

"Well," Sherlock began, trying to decide how to phrase his words. "Okay. You know that I am your daddy, right?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied earnestly, nodding his head. He stared at Sherlock, waiting anxiously for his father's response.

"Okay… Well a mummy is sort of like a daddy, only instead of being a boy, a mummy is a girl. Do you understand?"

Hamish thought for a moment, his brows pulled tightly together. He began to play with some of Sherlock's shirt between his fingers, rubbing the fabric between his fingers.

"'Es, Daddy," he replied slowly, his eyes slowly moving across the floor as he thought.

"All right. Well mummies are a little different. That's because before you're born," Sherlock started slowly, "you actually live inside your mummy's tummy." Hoping to help his son understand, Sherlock placed one hand over his stomach.

He looked up as he heard Hamish gasp out loud. The little boy's eyes were wide with wonder, and his mouth was hanging open.

"Daddy?!" he cried. Hurriedly, he leaned forward, pressing his head against Sherlock's stomach. He turned, pressing his ear against the detective's stomach. "Tummy, Daddy?" he asked, excitedly, moving both of his hands until they, too were resting against Sherlock's stomach.

"Wha?—Oh! No," Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. "No, Hamish. I can't have a baby inside of me. I'm a daddy. Only girls—mummies—can have babies inside of them. Not me," he chuckled, gently pulling Hamish's head away from his stomach.

"Oh," the little boy replied quietly. He looked up at Sherlock, confusion now in his eyes. He kept his hands resting against the detective's stomach.

"Hame Mummy?" he asked, staring at his father with wide eyes.

Sherlock sighed, having hoped to avoid this conversation. He tenderly placed one hand to the side of Hamish' face, running his thumb across the little boy's soft cheek.

"Yes, Hamish. You do have a mummy," he said slowly, whispering the words. "But I'm afraid I don't know who she is," he added hurriedly. "But, not too long ago, you were once inside a woman's tummy, Hamish." He hoped to draw attention away from the little boy's own mother, hoping he would not inquire further.

But it was clear the little boy didn't even understand the extent of what his father had just told him as a wide, bright smile was spread across his face.

"Hame, mummy's tummy?" he asked incredulously, gaping up at Sherlock.

The detective sighed in relief. "Yes, Hamish. You were once inside a tummy," he smiled, gently tickling Hamish's stomach with the tips of his fingers.

"Wow, Daddy!" the little boy exclaimed, giggling as his father tickled him. He gasped suddenly.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Mary Mummy!" he stated cheerfully, bouncing slightly in Sherlock's lap.

"Oh," the detective chuckled. "No, Hamish. Mary's not a mummy, I'm afraid. She is a girl, but she doesn't have a baby in her tummy. So that means she's not a mummy," he explained, deciding not to even begin to explain the process of adoption. That was _definitely_ a conversation for another day.

Smiling sadly at the thought, Sherlock scooped Hamish into his arms, and stood up, holding the little boy close to his chest.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish replied, though it was clear he was still quite happy with this new discovery.

"Daddy?" he asked, tapping Sherlock on the shoulder.

"Yes?" the detective murmured.

In response, Hamish pointed to the window. Sherlock hurried over, holding his son on his hip. "What is it, Hamish?"

The little boy pressed his hand against the window, staring off into the direction the girl and her mother had walked.

"What Daddy?" he asked, turning his attention back to Sherlock.

"Do you mean where's the little girl's daddy?" the detective asked, trying to understand what Hamish was asking.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Oh… Well… Sometimes, in different families, you can have several different kinds of mummies and daddies," Sherlock began slowly. He turned around, and began to slowly pace around the flat. Gently, he moved Hamish, snuggling the little boy close to his neck.

Knowing his father was going to speak, Hamish nuzzled into Sherlock's neck, sighing contently as the detective began to rub his hand up and down his back.

Sherlock continued, "In some families, there's one mummy and one daddy. Sometimes there can be two daddies or two mummies. There can be just one mummy, or, like us, there's just one daddy. You and I have one daddy and no mummy," he murmured quietly, watching Hamish's face for a reaction.

Taking a deep breath, the little boy leaned further into Sherlock, closing his eyes as he thought.

Hesitantly, the detective asked, "Hamish? Is it okay with you that there's just one daddy? That you have no mummy and me as your daddy? Does that make you sad?" he whispered, anxiously waiting for the little boy's response.

Eventually, Hamish opened his eyes and peered up at his father.

"No, Daddy... No Hame, mummy. 'Ove, Daddy... 'Ove _one_ Daddy," he whispered, looking up at Sherlock with reassuring eyes.

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed, an overwhelming sense of happiness flooding his veins. "I love you, Hamish. I love you so much," he murmured, already feeling tears begin to burn in his eyes. Lovingly, he pressed his lips to Hamish's forehead, tucking the little boy's head underneath his chin as he felt a few hot tears slide free.

"Love one daddy…" he murmured to himself, smiling in relief. He hugged Hamish closer, and tenderly kissed the little boy again, letting his lips linger against his son's soft skin.

He felt Hamish begin to speak, the little boy's lips brushing against his skin.

"Daddy 'ove one Hame?" he whispered quietly.

Sherlock choked back a cry upon hearing his son's question.

"Oh, Hamish…" he sighed, another tear falling down his face. "Always. I'll always love you. My one Hamish… My one Hamish…" He couldn't help but press another soft kiss to his son's soft hair. He felt the little boy sigh against his skin.

"My Hamish," he murmured. "Always… Always, my Hamish."


	16. Chapter Sixteen: Time With John

**Hey readers! I am _so_ sorry I couldn't get this up this morning, but unfortunately, I've had a crazy amount of exams this week, and a very minimal amount of time to write. So I decided that I would come home and finish this quickly today, and just post it late in the day. So I sincerely apologize for this being so late up today, though I hope you enjoy it anyway! =/ This chapter is for everyone who's been asking for some John time (but don't worry DaddySherlock lovers: there's some fluff at the end). =D Thank you everyone for all of your truly wonderful reviews I got on the last chapter. They really help! **

**Please enjoy! **

**Again, so sorry for it not being up this morning! Next chapter will be up on Sunday. Thanks!**

Chapter Sixteen: Time With John

"Yes. Of course. I'll be right over, Lestrade," Sherlock said, grabbing his coat. He turned back around to John, who was reading a children's book to Hamish on his lap.

"John, Lestrade needs me." He glanced at Hamish. "Kidnapping," he mouthed excitedly.

The doctor chuckled darkly.

"You could be a little less excited," he joked, rolling his eyes.

"But, John," the detective all-but-whined, wrapping his scarf around his neck. "It's been nearly two weeks since I've had a decent case!" he exclaimed. "I need some kind of brain stimulation! And," he added, whispering so Hamish wouldn't hear, "this one looks simply marvelous!"

"Daddy 'eaving?" came Hamish's small voice from where he was sitting on John's lap.

"Oh," Sherlock sighed sadly. He held his arms out, prompting John to stand up and pass the little boy to the detective.

"Yes, Hamish," he said, looking at the little boy with sad eyes. "But I won't be long. I'll be back as soon as I can, okay?" he promised tenderly, brushing the back of his fingers across Hamish's cheek.

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy replied mournfully.

"Oh, Hamish, it's okay," Sherlock whispered gently. "Besides… You're going to have far more fun with John then I'll be having," he added cheerfully, hoping to lift his son's spirits.

"Fun at John?" Hamish whispered hopefully, peering up at Sherlock.

"Yes!" the detective replied enthusiastically, giving the little boy a gentle squeeze of reassurance.

"Oh… 'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish replied happily, forgetting all of his trepidation.

"There's my boy," Sherlock murmured quietly, the corners of his lips turning up in a loving smile. "All right. Can I have a hug, then?"

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy!"

Smiling, Hamish haphazardly threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, squeezing his chubby arms tightly together. He pressed his head into the detective's coat.

"Bye-bye, Daddy," he whispered, snuggling further into Sherlock's neck.

The detective felt a twinge of sadness constrict his chest, momentarily stopping his breathing. Trying not to think about it, he quickly brushed the feeling aside, placing one hand on the back of Hamish's small head.

"Goodbye, Hamish," he murmured, gently kissing the little boy's cheek.

Slowly, keeping his hand on the back of Hamish's head, he pulled the little boy away so he could look at his face.

"Now," he said seriously, though he couldn't help but smile as he peered into Hamish's dark green eyes. "Do I get a kiss, then? I mean, it's only logical, seeing how I gave you one." He grinned upon feeling Hamish giggle in his arms.

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy laughed. With some help from his father, the little boy stretched his small body upward and pressed a light kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

"Mmm. Thank you, Hamish," the detective whispered, feeling a warmth spread through his chest where the sadness had previously been residing. He peered at John, noticing how his flat mate was looking fondly at the little boy.

"Well, then! I'd better be off." He turned his attention back to Hamish. "You be good for, John, okay? I'll be back soon." After pressing another quick kiss to his son's cheek, Sherlock (almost reluctantly) passed the little boy back to John.

"Text me if anything happens," he said to his flat mate, though he was still gazing at Hamish.

"Sherlock, we'll be fine," John replied, smiling in reassurance at his friend. "Besides, we're going to have a lot of fun together, aren't we, Hame?" he asked lightly, bouncing the little boy in his arms.

"'Es, Daddy. Fun at John," Hamish told Sherlock happily, almost as if _he_, too, was trying to reassure the detective.

"Of course," Sherlock whispered, smiling at both John and the little boy in his arms. "Bye, Hamish. Thank you, John," he called, hurrying down the stairs. He turned around briefly to see his son waving a goodbye with one small, chubby hand.

"Bye, Hamish," he whispered, knowing that even though his son couldn't hear him, the little boy would understand.

He hurried outside, into the brisk night air, closing the door behind him. He took a deep breath, trying to clear away the unusual feeling of longing that was building in his chest.

Though he'd gone to the Yard several times already, always leaving Hamish with John, the strange longing he felt to be with his son and know that he was safe only seemed to grow each time he went. And he was afraid it would be worse this time, seeing as this would be the first time he would not be home by the time Hamish went to bed…

"He'll be fine. You're being ridiculous, he muttered to himself half-heartedly, hailing a cab as he did so. Shaking his head in an attempt to clear his thoughts, Sherlock hopped into the cab, peering back at the door of 221B as he car quickly sped away down the street.

"Well, then!" John said cheerfully, bouncing Hamish in his arms as he heard the front door shut. "Shall we continue reading, then?"

"'Es 'ease, John," Hamish replied.

"Very good manners, Hame," he praised happily. Minding Hamish, he leaned down, picking up the book they had been reading together. He meandered over to his chair, plopping down, and then moved Hamish onto his lap.

"Okay, then. Now… Hmm… Where did we leave off?" he asked, feigning curiosity.

"Was it… here?" he asked, flipping back to the first page of the book.

"No, John!" Hamish giggled, reaching forward with one hand. He grabbed hold of the book and began flipping through the pages until he found they one they had left off at.

"John," he stated proudly, tapping the page with his finger.

Smiling at Hamish, John positioned the book so that both him and the little boy could see and began reading; making sure to do the voices he knew Hamish loved.

John finished reading the book, grinning each time Hamish would giggle at the voices he made.

As he sat the book down on his lap, Hamish turned around, gripping a fistful of the doctor's jumper in his hand.

"John silly," he giggled sweetly, staring into the doctor's eyes.

"Yeah.. I suppose I am pretty silly, aren't I? I mean I've been willing living with your father for several years. And someone would have to be _pretty_ silly to do that," he chuckled, gently tickling Hamish's stomach.

"'Es!" the little boy laughed, gently pushing away John's hand. "Now?" he asked, still smiling.

"Now what… Hmm… Well I suppose we could play hide and seek! How does that sound, hmm?" John asked excitedly, wrapping one hand around Hamish's middle.

"What, John?" the little boy asked quietly, still holding onto the doctor's jumper.

"You've never played hide and seek before?" John asked incredulously.

Hamish thought for a moment, before shaking his head. "No," he said plainly, ready for John to explain.

"Right, then," he said, standing up from the chair. He placed Hamish on the ground and knelt down, keeping a firm hold around the little boy's middle

"Okay. Hide and see. Here's how this works. I'm going to hide," he paused, looking around the flat, "like this," he finished, hurrying over to squat behind his chair. "All right, Hamish. Now come and see if you can find me."

Thoroughly confused, Hamish toddled over to John's chair and hesitantly peered behind.

"John?" he asked cautiously, as if he was afraid the doctor was going to jump out and frighten him. When he spotted John crouching behind the chair, he giggled, running forward to meet the doctor.

"John!" he laughed, wrapping his chubby arms around the doctor's wrist.

"Very good job, Hamish! You found me! Right. Ready to go again?"

"'Es, John."

The doctor smiled. "Good. All right, close your eyes and I'm going to hide again, okay?"

"'Kay, John," Hamish replied cheerfully, placing his hands over his eyes.

Chuckling quietly, John hurried over to the couch and lay down, pulling all of the pillows on top of himself. And, though he was clearly still visible, the doctor draped his arm over the side of the couch, letting his hand rest against the ground.

"Okay, Hamish!" he called, "I'm ready. You can come and find me."

"'Kay, John!" the little boy called back, his voice slightly muffled by his hands, which were now more or less covering his nose and mouth, rather than his eyes.

Excitedly, Hamish began to run around the flat, not knowing that John was carefully watching him.

"Jo-ohn!" he called, giggling wildly when he heard the doctor call back, "John? Who's John?"

"Silly," the little boy giggled to himself (sounding eerily similar to a certain detective), and hurried over to the couch. He squatted down, staring intently at John's hand. Slowly, he raked his eyes over the couch, crying, "John!" when he saw the doctor's face peering at him from under a mound of pillows.

"Oh no!" You found me," John sighed comically. "I think you're just too smart for me, hmm?" he said, bending down to pickup the little boy. "Come on, then. Next round."

John and Hamish were interrupted from their playing by the sound of the doctor's phone going off.

Smiling fondly at the little boy, John stood up, pulling his phone out of his pocket. New text from Sherlock. He rolled his eyes happily, knowing the detective was checking up on them.

**Everything going well?**

** SH**

John chuckled, quickly typing back a reply.

**Yes, Sherlock. We're fine and safe. Just got done playing together. Quick TV time then he's off to bed. Case?**

"John?"

The doctor turned around to see Hamish staring intently at the phone in his hands. He was just about to ask if the little boy would like to say goodnight to his father when his phone beeped again, buzzing in his hands.

Marvelous! Terribly exciting. Explain later.

SH

Chuckling, John closed the phone in hands and turned back to the little boy, who was still looking curiously at the phone.

"Hame?" he asked, "would you like to call Daddy and say goodnight to him quickly before you go to bed?"

The little boy's eyes widened with wonder. He pointed at the phone.

"Daddy?" he asked incredulously.

John chuckled. "Sort of. What do you say? Want to give him a call?"

Though it was clear the little boy didn't fully understand how his father could possibly be in the small object in John's hands, Hamish nodded vigorously, hurrying forwards towards the doctor.

Smiling at the little boy's wonder, John picked Hamish up and moved over to the couch, sitting him on his lap. He quickly dialed Sherlock's number, putting the phone on speaker so Hamish could hear. As the mobile began to ring, with sheer excitement and wonder, Hamish reached forward, pressing his fingers to the screen.

"Wow..." he sighed, utterly amazed. He was so engrossed in the new object that when it clicked to life and and he could hear his father's voice calling, "John?! What happened, is everything all right?" the little boy jumped back, shocked by the sound of Sherlock's voice coming from object.

"No, Sherlock, everything's all right, Hamish just-"

"Daddy?" Hamish shouted, shoving his small face close to the phone. He called again, even louder, "Daddy!" which was met by the sound of Sherlock's deep laugh coming from the other end of the line.

"Hello, Hamish," he chuckled. "And there's no need to shout; I can hear you just fine, I promise."

Hamish gasped, turning back to John with wide eyes.

"Hello, Daddy!" he said excitedly, turning back to the phone.

"Hamish just wanted to say goodnight before he heads off to bed," John explained, chuckling at Hamish's amazement.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy agreed happily.

"Ah. I see," Sherlock replied, smiling contently.

"Nigh' Daddy. 'Ove," Hamish said loudly, causing both the detective and doctor to chuckle.

"Goodnight, Hamish. I love you, too. Thank you for calling me to tell me goodnight," he laughed happily. "Have you had a good time with John?"

"Oh! 'Es Daddy! Fun at John!" Very excited to share the news of his day with his father, Hamish launched into a very long explanation of what had happened that day, most of which was just unintelligible babbling.

"Ohh... Yes?... I see..." Sherlock murmured every once in a while, smiling widely at his son's summary of the day.

The little boy finished with a nod of his head, a small smile on his face. "'Kay, Daddy!" he said proudly, pressing his face closer to the phone. "Daddy fun?" he asked, concerned.

"Did I have fun? Well... Not as much as it sounded like you had!" Hamish giggled happily.

"'Kay, Daddy! 'Nigh!" He reached forward, wrapping his arms around the phone. "'Ove, Daddy," he called, making a kissing noise towards the screen.

Sherlock chuckled. "Goodnight, Hamish," he laughed, making a kissing noise back, which received much giggling from Hamish.

"'Night, John. Thank you," the detective added.

"'Course," the doctor replied happily. "Say, 'bye, Daddy'!"

"Bye, Daddy!" Hamish repeated happily. Sherlock chuckled before ending the call with a loud click.

John chuckled and chucked the phone away, tossing it on the other end of the couch.

"All right, Hame," he said, "let's watch some cartoons quickly before we go to bed, hmm?"

Upon hearing John speak, Hamish looked back from where he had been staring at the phone on the couch.

"Nigh' nigh'?" he asked quietly. John couldn't help but laugh.

"Is that what Daddy calls it?" he chuckled, the idea of Sherlock having said that sounding incredibly humorous.

"What, John?" Hamish asked, not understand why the doctor was laughing.

apping his arms around the little boy. "Ohhh," he groaned softly. "You're getting so big, aren't you?" he asked, bouncing Hamish on his legs.

"'Es, John..." the little boy replied quickly, clearing anxious to say something else.

"John?" he asked timidly.

"Yes, Hame?"

"Daddy for nigh' night?" he asked nervously.

"Oh..." John replied. He'd forgotten: this would be the first time Sherlock had left for a case, but had not returned by the time the little boy was to go to bed.

"Um... I don't know, Hame," John replied slowly. "But how about this: How about Daddy before we go to bed, and you can talk to him for a little while, okay? Hmm? How does that sound?"

The little boy contemplated for a moment, drawing his eyebrows together, before he looked back at John. "'Kay, John."

The doctor sighed in relief. "Good." He sat back into the couch, flipping the TV on as he did so. "Okay, Hame. How does-"

"Train!" the little boy cried triumphantly, pointing his chubby finger towards the screen. John laughed, pulling the little boy close to his chest.

Sighing happily, Hamish leaned back, letting his head rest against John's chest. Eyes staring at the screen, he absentmindedly began to play with the sleeve of John's jumper, rubbing his chubby fingers back and forth across the fabric.

John gazed fondly down at Hamish, smiling slightly. He really was a sweet little boy... The doctor couldn't help but tighten his grip around the little boy, his own paternal instincts kicking in. Feeling almost bittersweet, he leaned down to press a quick kiss to the little boy's head.

* * *

A little while later, when John had started to notice how Hamish's eyes were fluttering closed, he turned the TV off and slowly moved the little boy around in his arms.

Trying not to jostle the almost-sleeping little boy, John slowly meandered into Sherlock's room, gently bouncing Hamish as he walked.

He quickly changed the little boy's nappy, and grabbed a pair of pajama trousers (they had discovered that Hamish much preferred to sleep either without a shirt or just in his nappy.).

"Okay," he sighed quietly, gently laying Hamish in his cot. He tucked the covers around his small form and then bent down, pressing a light kiss to the little boy's forehead.

"'Night, Hame," he whispered, though the little boy was already asleep.

He quietly crept out of the room, shutting the door behind him. He found his phone, picked it up and began writing a text.

**He's sound asleep. See? I told you you were worried about nothing.**

He clicked send, and then grabbed his laptop, plopping down in his chair. The phone buzzed.

**Maybe. Glad he's asleep. Thank you, again, John.**

**SH**

Knowing Sherlock wouldn't require a reply, the doctor continued working on his laptop.

It wasn't long, though, before he heard movement coming from Sherlock's room, followed by an almost-inaudible, "John!"

The doctor stood up, placing the computer on his chair and hurried to Sherlock's bedroom. He slowly pushed open the door, peering over at the little boy's cot.

"Hamish? What's wrong?" he asked gently, upon seeing how the little boy was standing up in his cot, crying. He hurried over and picked up the little boy.

Hamish sniffled as John sat down on the bed, placing the little boy in his lap.

"Daddy," he sniffled sadly, staring at his hands. "Daddy not nigh' night. No Hame nigh' night," he cried sadly, wrapping his arms around John's middle.

"Oh, Hamish," John almost chuckled. "Shh... It's okay. Would you like to come sit with me? And then we'll see if we can't get daddy home?How's that sound?"

"'Es, 'ease, John... Ta."

The doctor smiled. "You're welcome. Come on, then," he said, standing up off the bed. He placed Hamish on the ground, and, with one hand on the little boy's back, guided him out of the room.

"Do you want to watch some TV, Hame?" he asked, walking over to his chair. He pulled the little boy onto his lap, hoping he would fall asleep and he wouldn't have to pull Sherlock away from his case.

"No 'ease, John. Daddy?"

John sighed quietly. "All right, then. We can call daddy."

"'Es 'ease," Hamish replied sleepily, rubbing his fist into one of his eyes as he yawned widely.

The doctor pulled out his phone, and quickly dialed Sherlock's number.

"Yes?" the detective answered almost immediately.

"Daddy?" Hamish called tiredly, leaning up towards the phone in John's hand.

"Do you want to talk to him, Hame?" The little boy nodded, yawning widely as he did so.

John quickly switched the mobile to speaker. "Okay, Hame. Go ahead." He gave a small nod of encouragement.

"Hello, Hamish," Sherlock said gently.

Upon hearing his father's voice, and sleepiness getting the better of him, Hamish began to cry again. "Daddy... Home," he whimpered, turning around and pressing his face into John's stomach.

"John? What's happened? Is he okay?" Sherlock asked frantically.

Peering sadly down at the little boy, John placed a soothing hand on his back. He pulled the phone back to his ear.

"No, Sherlock, he's fine. He's just really tired, is all. He's very distraught, however, that you're not here to help him sleep," John added, almost apologetically, knowing the detective would probably not want to be called away from the case.

"I'm on my way," Sherlock said determinedly.

"No, Sherlock. Really, it's okay-" But the detective had already hung up. He turned his attention back to Hamish, who was still crying into his jumper.

"Shh," he murmured, running his hand up and down the little boy's back. "Hame, what's wrong? Why are you so upset?" he asked gently.

"Daddy..." Hamish sniffled, "D-daddy 'uk bad 'eam bye..."

John though for a moment, trying to make sense of what the little boy had said.

"Oh," he sighed sadly, upon realizing what the little boy meant. He leaned down, resting his head on top of Hamish's. "Did you have a bad dream?" he asked gently. He felt the little boy nod against his chest. "And Daddy makes the bad dreams go away, doesn't he?"

"'Es, John," Hamish cried sadly, pulling his head away from the doctor's jumper. "Daddy home?" he whispered.

Tenderly, John moved his hand and rubbed his thumb across Hamish's cheek, wiping away some of his tears. "Shh, Hamish. It's okay. Daddy's going to be home any minute," he promised reassuringly. He saw Hamish's eyes brighten ever so slightly.

"Oh..." he sighed, leaning into John's touch as another tear slid silently down his cheek.

"It's okay. I'm sorry you had a bad dream, Hame," John murmured, brushing away more tears as he did so.

"Mmm. 'Kay, John."

"Do you want to talk about it? Sometimes talking helps," he offered.

"No, John," Hamish replied firmly. "Bad."

"Bad..." John repeated sadly, hugging the little boy close. He made a mental note not to tell Sherlock as it would only worry him more.

"Here. Come on up here," he whispered gently, scooting the little boy up and wrapping his arms around him in a tight hug.

"Ta, John," Hamish sighed happily. The two sat there until they were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening.

"John?" came the worried voice of Sherlock. In a few moments, the detective had reached the landing, his coat billowing behind him.

Upon hearing his father's voice, Hamish turned around in John's arms and glanced hopefully towards the stairs.

"Daddy!" he cried, practically jumping off of John's lap. He hurried over, wrapping his arms around the detective's leg.

"Daddy home," he sighed happily, pressing his face into the soft fabric of his father's trousers.

Sherlock shared a quick glanced with John before bending down and lifting the little boy up.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm home," he murmured quietly, hugging the little boy close. "What's wrong, hmm? Just can't sleep?" He felt Hamish nod against his chest.

"No nigh' night at no Daddy," he said, pulling back so he could peer up at his father. "No nigh' night..." he whispered quietly, his chubby fingers curling around the collar of Sherlock's coat.

"I'm sorry," the detective apologized quietly, noticing the tears that were still on his son's small face. "I didn't mean to make you cry..." Tenderly, he used the back of his fingertips to brush away the last of Hamish's tears.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed, leaning forward to rest his head at the base of his father's neck. Sleepily, he leaned up, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, and pressed a tender kiss to the corner of the detective's lips.

"'Kay, Daddy," he reassured sweetly. "'Etter Daddy home."

"Oh, Hamish," Sherlock sighed, smiling sadly at his son. "You're just... Wonderful. I love you," he murmured, leaning forward. Very gently, he kissed Hamish's cheek, inhaling deeply as that strange feeling of longing that had been residing in his chest suddenly dissipated.

"Come on, then, Hamish. Let's get some sleep," he whispered, placing one hand on the back of his son's head. Cuddling the little boy close, he walked over to the couch, and with the help of John, managed to shed his coat. He sat down, and leaned back, moving Hamish so the little boy was resting in his lap.

Realizing how truly tired he was, Hamish leaned forward, and pressed his small form into Sherlock. He closed his eyes, and reached one arm up towards his father's face.

Love in his eyes, Sherlock wrapped his slender fingers around Hamish's small hand. He pressed his hand to his chest, giving the little boy a reassuring squeeze.

"Goodnight, Hamish. Sleep well. I love you," he whispered quietly, pressing a loving kiss to his son's auburn curls.

"'Ove, Daddy," Hamish managed to murmur before quickly falling asleep, wrapped in the comfort of his father's embrace.

Smiling at his son, Sherlock leaned back further so the little boy was in a better position, rather than sitting up. Keeping the little boy stable, he placed one hand Hamish's back, and began to absentmindedly rub his thumb back and forth over the bare skin, a wave of happiness rushing over him.

"You really are wonderful with him," John said quietly, pulling the detective away from his thoughts.

"Hmm? Oh-Well... Yes-I mean I suppose," he stumbled awkwardly, now embarrassed.

"It's not a bad thing, Sherlock," John chuckled. "I was just merely _observing_, as you so often like to say. He really is a wonderful kid. Very sweet. I actually had a pretty good time. We had no problems all day-well... Up until he had to go to sleep of course."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, peering at John as the doctor moved to his chair. "I knew I shouldn't have left. He wasn't ready," he added guiltily, subconsciously tightening his grip around Hamish's hand, though he couldn't help but as he felt the little boy sigh against his chest. "Mmm," Hamish murmured, turning his head so his cheek was pressing against Sherlock's chest.

Smiling at his two flat-mates, John continued talking. "I'm not surprised he's so tired; we had a pretty jam-packed day... Most of which was spent playing hide and seek," he chuckled to himself.

"What, John? Hide and seek?" Sherlock asked confusedly.

"What? You mean-You've never heard of hide and seek?" John exclaimed incredulously.

"John," the detective replied slowly, talking in his usual "how-much-of-an-idioit-could-you-be" voice. "You saw how I turned out. Do you think my parents did much of anything with me? Well... besides send me away so they could be rid of me," he added, muttering to himself. He shook his head. "In answer to your original question: No. My parents never played hide and seek with me."

"Oh," John said, slightly saddened by the thought of what Sherlock's childhood must have been like. "Umm... How's the case going?"

"Oh!" Sherlock said excitedly, his eyes brightening with that usual glint he got when he was on a case. "It's simply beautiful. It's so intricate. The kidnapper is brilliant! And of course, that means more fun for me," he added, smiling widely at John. "I will be needing your assistance, though on this one... So... Umm..." he added guiltily, suddenly very interested in the floor. "That means we'll be needing to bring Hamish to the Yard tomorrow."

"What?" John cried, staring at Sherlock with wide eyes. "You can't be serious-Sherlock he's a little child. You cannot just-No. The answer is no," he said firmly, glaring at his flat mate.

"Oh please, John," the detective replied, rolling his eyes. "It's not like I'm taking him to a _crime scene_! He'll be fine. He'll stay with the two of us the whole time. Besides, it's about time he got out and about to see some of the city," he added gently, gazing fondly down as the little boy took a deep breath.

"But-"

"No. It's not up for discussion. I've already talked to Lestrade. It's all settled. It'll be fun! Besides," he said smugly, "I'll finally get to show off Hamish to everyone. Can't wait to see the look on Donovan's and Anderson's faces." He grinned widely as John rolled his eyes.

"Why am I not surprised?" he sighed, standing up. "Just... Play nice, okay?" he begged.

"Is that a yes, John?" Sherlock replied slyly, smiling as he saw the doctor's eyes narrow at him.

"You're insufferable," he muttered, marching towards the stairs.

"'Night, John," the detective chuckled, smiling smugly to himself.

"Mmm," the doctor replied tersely. He turned around, though, and walked back. "Not sleeping tonight?" he asked.

"No. Need to think. Sleep is a waste of my time. Besides," he added, glancing down at Hamish. "I don't want to wake him." He quickly brushed his thumb over the little boy's back.

"Hmm," John chuckled quietly, smiling at the sleeping boy.

"Right. 'Night, then," he said quickly, attempting to march away again, though he knew he had already lost this battle.

Smiling slyly as he heard John hurry up the stairs to his room, Sherlock, moving very slowly, moved until he was lying down on the couch, Hamish resting on his chest. He closed his eyes, focusing on the reassuring feeling of Hamish's smooth skin beneath his hand; on his son's steady breathing; on the light, beautiful noises the little boy made as he slept; focusing on the way Hamish's fingers curled beneath his hand, resting lightly on his chest. Taking a deep breath in, he allowed himself to escape, delving deep into the details of the case.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed quietly, sleeping soundly on his father's chest.


	17. Chapter Seventeen: The Yard

Chapter Seventeen: The Yard

Sherlock glanced at the clock. 9:41.

"Okay," he whispered, slowly rubbing his hand up and down Hamish's back. "Time to get up. We've got a big day," he finished excitedly, leaning down to gently kiss Hamish's silky curls.

"Mmm... Da'ey?" the little boy asked groggily, slowly turning his head against Sherlock's chest. He groaned, yawning widely into the detective's shirt. "Up time?" he asked, lifting his head to peer tiredly at his father.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled. "Time to get up. But guess what, Hamish?"

"'Es, Daddy? What?" Hamish replied, waking up at the excited tone of his father's voice.

"We're going out today. Annnnnd," he elongated comically, "you get to help me with a case! Isn't that exciting?" he finished enthusiastically, ruffling the little boy's curls.

"Case, Daddy? What?" Hamish asked, giggling as Sherlock stopped ruffling his hair.

"Well... You know how John is a doctor and that's his job, right?"

"Umm... 'Kay, Daddy," he said, sounding unsure of himself.

"Well _my_ job is solving cases—like mysteries. And today you get to help me with one!"

"Oh... Um... 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish said, not understanding. Sherlock laughed, smiling broadly at his son.

"You'll see soon," he chuckled, quickly kissing the little boy's cheek. "Come on, then. We need to wake John up. Would you like to?"

The little boy giggled in response.

"All right, then. Let's go," Sherlock smiled, getting up off the couch. Bouncing the little boy in his arms, the detective made his way to the stairs, grinning at the small, tired smile on his son's face. As the detective hurried up the stairs, Hamish's chubby fingers curled around the collar of his shirt.

"Shh," Sherlock whispered quietly to Hamish before pushing open the door to John's room.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered, using his free hand to cover his mouth. Smiling at the little boy, Sherlock pushed open the door to John's room, keeping a firm hold around Hamish's waist.

"Okay," he whispered, walking over to John's bed. "There you go," he groaned quietly, bending over the doctor's sleeping form to place Hamish on the bed.

"Daddy," he giggled quietly as he crawled over towards John's face. He situated himself closely towards the doctor's body. "John?" he whispered, smiling widely. "Joo-ohn?" Giggling, he prodded John's face with a single small finger.

"Wha'? Hamish? What's—Where's Daddy?" He yawned widely, wrapping one hand around Hamish's middle. Scooting the little boy closer, he rolled over to see Sherlock grinning at him.

"Morning, John. Hurry and get dressed!" he said excitedly.

"Ugh... Sherlock..." He glanced back at the detective and paused before finishing, "Fine."

"Excellent! Come on, then, Hamish. Let's go get ready!"

"'Es, Daddy!" Grinning, Hamish crawled over John's body, and reached his chubby arms up towards Sherlock.

"Be quick, John," the detective said excitedly as he hurried over towards the bed. Smiling at his son's own enthusiasm, Sherlock scooped the little boy into his arms. He hurried towards the stairs, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Eventually, the trio had finally managed to successfully eat, get dressed, and grab everything they would need for the day, such as food for Hamish, nappies, and items to keep him occupied at the Yard.

"Ready, John?" Sherlock asked happily. Hamish situated safely on his hip, he turned around to see the doctor, with two rather large bags in each hand, glaring at him.

"You could lend me a hand, you know."

"Well of course I could. Do please stop stating the obvious, John, and let's go. Ready Hamish?" he asked, turning on his heel to walk out the door.

"Of course," John huffed. Muttering angrily to himself, he began walking towards the stairs, glad he couldn't see the smirk he knew was on Sherlock's face right now.

At the bottom of the landing, Sherlock waited patiently for John to make his way down the stairs. He turned his attention to Hamish, who was gripping tightly to the collar of his coat with one hand, and slowly tracing his clavicle with the other. The little boy seemed rather dazed, now, by the whole situation. "Mmm," he hummed to himself, staring at the door with his mouth hanging open slightly.

Sherlock peered lovingly at the little boy as he began to mumble to himself, tightening his grip around the detective's collar.

"Wh'? No... Mmm..."

The detective couldn't help but smile as he realized just how much like him Hamish was turning out to be, already beginning to mumble to himself.

"Hamish?" he asked gently, brushing the back of his hand across the little boy's forehead.

"Hmm? What, Daddy?" Still dazed, Hamish turned his attention back to Sherlock's face. His hand paused momentarily as he looked up at the detective.

"You okay?" Sherlock chuckled quietly, twirling some of the little boy's hair between his fingers.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly. He shook his head at the sound of John bustling down the stairs, and gazed up at Sherlock. "'Ink, Daddy," he stated happily, his hand resuming the tracing of his father's collarbone.

"You were thinking, hmm? Well you'll have to tell me what you were thinking about later, okay? Because right now," he drawled, turning back towards the stairs, "I think John has _finally_ made his way down the stairs." He smirked as the doctor practically growled at him.

Sherlock chuckled deeply. He stopped twirling Hamish's hair between his fingers, and stretched his arm out towards the doctor. "Here," he offered smugly.

Chuckling at this flat mate, John passed the heaviest bag off to Sherlock. "Thanks," he sighed.

Bag in hand, Hamish on his hip, Sherlock pushed open the door, and walked out into the brisk morning air, John right on his heels.

"I've got it," the doctor said, hailing a cab with his free hand.

"You ready, Hamish?" Sherlock asked excitedly, bouncing the little boy in his arms as his flat mate hurried into the cab.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good!" Smiling at his son, Sherlock stepped into the cab, chuckling as he felt Hamish tuck his head under his chin, as the little boy did every time the two got into a cab.

"Scotland Yard," John told the cabbie. As the car sped away, Sherlock situated the bags in the middle of the cab and moved Hamish onto his lap.

"Look," he murmured, pointing out the window.

Though Hamish had been out and about many times before, he had yet to experience being in the heart of London, with huge buildings and large numbers of people.

Looking in the direction his father had pointed, Hamish stood up, scrambling towards the window. Using Sherlock's thigh as a sort of step, he pressed his hand against the window, splaying his chubby fingers across the glass as he stared out at the busy city.

"Wow," he whispered, staring wide-eyed at the passing buildings. "Look, Daddy!" He pointed excitedly, tearing his gaze away from the window to look excitedly at Sherlock.

"Yes, I see," he replied enthusiastically, wrapping one hand around Hamish's small stomach to keep him steady.

Throughout the entire short ride to the Yard, Hamish stared wide-eyed out the window, making sure to point out anything he found to be exceptionally extraordinary, which always received an enthusiastic reply from either Sherlock or John.

"Okay, Hamish. This is it," Sherlock told the little boy happily as the cab pulled up outside of their destination.

He grabbed one bag, slinging it over his shoulder as John grabbed the other, and then turned his attention back to Hamish, whose face was pressed tightly against the glass, peering up at the tall building they were stopped in front of.  
"Wow, Daddy," he sighed in amazement. "Look."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock beamed. "And guess what, Hamish? We get to go in there."

Both he and John laughed out loud as they heard little Hamish gasp in wonder.

"Come on, then," John inputted happily, opening the door on his side of the cab.

Still chuckling at the amazement on his son's face, Sherlock pushed open the door, pulling Hamish close as he did so and exited the cab.

Though previously in awe of the building and the vast amount of people surrounding it, now that he was out of the safety of the cab, Hamish clearly seemed intimidated by his new surroundings. As Sherlock began to make his way towards the building, the little boy pressed his head just below the detective's jaw and wrapped his arms tightly around his father's neck.

"Daddy," he whimpered against Sherlock's smooth skin.

"Shh," the detective murmured reassuringly. "It's okay. I'm right here and John's just there behind us. See?"

Cautiously, Hamish pulled his head a way from Sherlock's neck just long enough to check and see if John really was following them. When he saw the doctor, close behind, smiling reassuringly, Hamish sighed in relief.

"'Kay, Daddy." Now more content, he returned to his previous position, and let his head rest against Sherlock's shoulder.

"Okay," John said as they reached the front doors. "Here we go." With a wide grin, Sherlock pushed through the doors, ignoring the whispering that instantly started. John smirked, knowing Sherlock was positively loving all of the attention he was already getting. And even though he knew the detective would never admit it, John could tell Sherlock truly was excited to be able to show Hamish to everyone, proud of the fact that he could claim the little boy as his son. The thought made the doctor smile to himself.

Hamish was clearly overwhelmed by all of the staring and whispering from the people around him.

Becoming increasingly more anxious, and now seriously doubting what Sherlock had told him about this trip being fun, Hamish tapped one of his fingers against the back of Sherlock's neck. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"What doing, Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, gazing up at the detective. His eyes quickly scanned the room, peering anxiously at the many chattering people.

The trio reached the lift. As John punched in the button, Sherlock turned Hamish around in his arms.

"It's okay, Hamish," he said reassuringly. "There's nothing to be worried about. We're just going to see Lestrade."

"Oh," the little boy replied, though he still appeared uneasy.

Sherlock smiled, hoping to reassure his son. He leaned forward, and very gently kissed Hamish's cheek. "It's okay," he repeated, murmuring against the little boy's skin.

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy."

"Good man," John said quietly, gazing over at his flat mates.

They reached their floor, and Hamish jumped slightly in Sherlock's arms at the sound of the bell ringing.

Both John and Sherlock took a deep breath as the doors slowly slid open.

"Ready?" John muttered out of the corner of his mouth.

"Oh yes," the detective whispered back, his lips turning up into a sly half-smile.

John chuckled to himself as Sherlock hurried out of the lift, shaking his head as the detective hurried forward towards Lestrade's office.

As soon as Hamish noticed that this part of the building was much more quiet and calm, he relaxed in Sherlock's arms. The detective couldn't help but smile sweetly as he felt Hamish relax against him.

"Lestrade," he called happily towards the Inspector's office.

Upon hearing his name, Greg looked up from where he was sitting at his desk.

"Oh!" he cried, standing up as John and Sherlock entered his office. "Sorry, guys. Almost forgot that you were bringing Hamish today."

"No big deal, Greg," John replied happily, placing his bag on the floor.

"I'm not surpised," Sherlock muttered under his breath as he set both Hamish and the bag on the floor.

"Unk Les'de!" Hamish cried upon seeing the Detective Inspector. He rushed forward, wrapping his arms around one of Greg's legs.

"Hey! Look how well you're walking, little man!" he praised, bending down to pat the little boy on his head.

"Uncle Lestrade," Sherlock scoffed, giving a little roll of his eyes.

"_Sherlock_," John warned, shooting him a look.

The detective smirked. "Come on, then, Hamish," he said happily, reaching his hand out towards the little boy.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled happily, unwrapping his arms from around Lestrade's leg.

Now completely at peace, he hurried back over to Sherlock, taking ahold of the detective's hand. "'Etter, Daddy," he sighed contently, leaning his head against Sherlock's leg.

"Good," the detective said, smiling down at Hamish. He turned his attention back to Lestrade. "So! Anything new?" he inquired excitedly.

"Well," Greg said, turning around towards his desk. He grabbed a folder and handed it to John so he would be up to date on the facts of the case. "We raked over the crime scene again like you said, and we found something. We're processing it right now. It was—"

"A blood sample found behind the couch, as I had originally suggested? Hardly surprising."

Both John and Lestrade chuckled to themselves.

"Right. And don't worry," he added hurriedly, "We've already had a sample sent to the lab so you can... Do whatever it is you do with those things."

"Excellent," the detective murmured. "And I don't suppose you managed to notice the muddy footprint just under the coffee table?"

Lestrade sighed deeply, and turned around to his desk, picking up the phone. "I'll get someone back over there."

"Yes. I need that, soon, Lestrade, so we can pinpoint where he might have been. In the meantime," he added, talking in a more childish voice as he looked down at Hamish, who had been observing quietly from his position against his father's leg. "We're going to go to the lab and examine some blood! Hmm? How does that sound?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, he's a child," John sighed incredulously, though, to be honest, he was not surprised.

"Obvious, John. And besides, he's _my_ child. He'll get used to things like this; might as well start him early!"

"Right. Of course we must," the doctor finished sarcastically, though it went unnoticed by Sherlock as Sally Donovan had chosen that moment to walk into Lestrade's office.

"Well," she drawled, "decided to come back did you, freak? You left in quite a hurry last night, didn't you? Probably went home so quickly because you and John wanted to—"

Before she could continue, though, and before Sherlock could yell out a very well-thought-out retort, they was interrupted by the sound of a very loud gasping noise. Everyone's eyes in the room fell to Hamish, who was glaring up at Sally, his arms crossed across his chest.

"Up, Daddy," he said firmly. He continued to stare angrily at Donovan as Sherlock picked the little boy up, moving him close to his chest.

"Hamish?" he asked hesitantly.

"No, Daddy." He pointed at Sally, who was gaping at the little, who had called Sherlock "Daddy" not once, but twice.

Keeping his finger pointed at the Sergeant, Hamish continued. "Bad," he stated, still glaring. "Corner." Frowning deeply, he pointed to the corner of Lestrade's office. "An' think," he added with a firm nod of his head. When Sally remained frozen to the spot, still staring wide-eyed at the little boy in Sherlock's arms, Hamish raised his eyebrows, mimicking the look he'd seen his father give him on the few occasions he'd been disciplined. "Mean. Corner. Now," he said, trying to sound as menacing as possible.

The two continued to stare at each other, Sally gaping, Hamish glaring until both John and Lestrade burst out laughing.

"Ohhh that was great!" John laughed, wiping his eyes with the back of his hands.

"You heard him Donovan. Corner. Now. Because you were mean. Go think about what you've done," Lestrade chortled, gasping for breath. "I'm not kidding!" he added when he saw Sally staring at him. "Go on, then! Corner."

"You're all freaks!" she fumed, turning on her heel and marching out of the room, muttering angrily to herself.

Sherlock, who'd previously been staring at his son with wide eyes, began to laugh out loud, pulling the now-very-confused Hamish to his chest in a tight hug.

"Oh, Hamish! You're just wonderful! Oh, that was brilliant! I knew it was a good idea bringing you," he praised, gently kissing the little boy all over his cheeks and head. "_I_ couldn't have come up with a better retort! Just—Oh!—So marvelous, Hamish!"

"Daddy?" the little boy managed to ask quietly in between his father's many kisses. "Mon'ov'onan mean. Corner?" he said in confusion.

Sherlock stopped the stream of kisses so he could answer Hamish's question. "Yes, Hamish. She was being very mean. And you did a very good job. She deserves to sit in a corner and think about what she's done," he finished, giggling to himself.

"Oh... 'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish declared happily. He reached up, and with a large smile on his face, wrapped his chubby arms around Sherlock's neck to give him a tight hug.

"Simply brilliant," he whispered into the little boy's silky curls. "Come on, then! On that wonderful note, I say we go down to the lab to examine some blood samples, hmm? What do you say Hamish?"

"'Es, 'ease Daddy!"

"Excellent. Coming John?" he asked happily, still beaming.

The doctor, who was still giggling hysterically with Lestrade, tried to catch his breath. "I'll head over in a minute," he managed, which only launched both him and Greg into another fit of laughs.

Sherlock chuckled in response. "Right, then. We'll see you over there. Come on Hamish. Molly might be in today!"

"Aunt Molly?" he asked excitedly.

"Mmm-hmm."

Grinning, Sherlock placed Hamish on the floor, and waited patiently until the little boy had wrapped his small fingers around his thumb.

"See you in a few," he called back to John and Lestrade as he made his way out of Greg's office, and back outside to hail a cab. As the cab quickly made its way to St. Bart's, Hamish seemed even more amazed than he had on the way here. He pressed his face against the window, sighing in awe at the passing scenery.

Occasionally, smiling lovingly at the little boy, Sherlock would explain something about a passing building, which only added to Hamish's awe.

Eventually, Hamish decided he'd had enough of walking. "Daddy? Up 'ease? Tired."

"Of course. We're almost there. Up we go," he said, lifting the little boy up.

"Ta, Daddy," Hamish said, absentmindedly playing with soft fabric of Sherlock's coat between his fingers.

"You're very welcome, Hamish."

The detective continued towards the lab, resuming his usual pace. He talked absentmindedly to Hamish as he walked, going over the details of the case, though he made sure to leave out all of the gory details.

"So it must mean that he was in London at precisely 7:15 on the night of the murder, right?" he asked rhetorically as he pushed open the doors to the lab. "Which means there must—" He stopped immediately upon seeing Molly, sitting on the ground, one hand on her forehead, other wrapped tightly around her stomach, sobbing hysterically.

"Molly?" he cried, rushing forward.

Ever since Reichenbach and everything Molly had done for him—everything she had sacrificed for him—the relationship between the two had grown significantly stronger. Sherlock had vowed to always be there for her if she ever needed anything and had to admit that he actually cared for her.

Upon seeing the detective rushing towards her, Molly stood up, hurriedly trying to brush away the tears from her face.

"Molly, what's wrong? Are you all right? Is everything okay with the baby?" he asked worriedly, hovering by her small form.

"No, no, Sherlock, really I'm fine. It's just—Well—Umm—It's, it's Daniel. He... Um... He's left—Just up and decided he didn't want any part of this anymore," she sniffled, nodding towards her stomach. No longer able to keep her emotions in check, though, she began to sob again, holding her head in her hands.

"Molly... I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured quietly. Keeping Hamish on his hip, he reached forward, placing his free hand on Molly's back. He was still very awkward when it came to comforting anyone besides Hamish. "Is there anything I can do?"

"What the hell is happening?" came a worried cry from the doorway. Both Sherlock and Molly turned to see John standing at the entrance to the lab, two large bags in his hands, and a worried look on his face. He dropped the bags and hurried over.

"Molly? What's wrong?"

When Molly only continued to cry harder, Sherlock turned to John and quickly summarized, "Molly's boyfriend, Daniel, has just decided that he no longer wants anything to with her pregnancy, so he's up and left, and, clearly, Molly is very distressed by it."

John did a double-take. "Wait. Sorry. What? Did you just say pregn—Molly, you're pregnant?" he asked incredulously.

Molly couldn't help but cough out a laugh. She turned to John with tears still streaming down her cheeks, though she was smiling.

"Yes," she answered quietly, wiping the back of her hand across her cheeks. "I told Sherlock... He didn't, tell you, did he?" she chuckled.

"Wha—How far along are you Molly?"

"Five months," Sherlock answered quickly.

John glared at him. "And how long have _you_ known?" he asked Sherlock.

"Four months, two days and eight hours," the detective answered plainly.

"What!" John fumed, glowering at Sherlock. "You've known for that long, and you never told me!"

"My apologizes but—"

"Aunt Molly?" Hamish whispered quietly, concern written all over his small features. Everyone stopped talking. Sniffling, and hurriedly wiping her face, Molly turned her attention to Hamish.

"Yes, Hamish?" she asked gently, with a shaky voice.

The little boy gestured to Sherlock, who obliged by leaning forward, moving Hamish closer to Molly.

A sad look on his face, the little boy reached up, and gently brushed his fingers across Molly's cheeks, and then once across her forehead, moving some of her hair off of her forehead.

He leaned back, recoiling his hand from her face. "'Etter, Aunt Molly," he said, giving a reassuring nod.

Molly choked back a happy sob. "Thank you so much, Hamish," she sniffled. "May I?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied hastily, passing Hamish over to Molly. Smiling sadly, she hugged the little boy close, tucking his head under her chin. "Thank you, Hamish," she repeated, whispering into the little boy's hair.

"'Es, Molly," Hamish replied quietly, talking into Molly's neck.

Sniffling again, she pressed a quick kiss to Hamish's temple, before passing him back to Sherlock.

"Oh," she sighed, clearing her throat quietly. "Okay. I'm okay... We're okay." She gave a slight nod of her head, and, wiping away the last of her tears, turned back to Sherlock and John.

"Oh. Thank you. Thank you very much." She hurried forward, wrapping her arms around all three of them. "Sorry for all the crazy emotions. Hormones, you know," she chuckled, backing away.

"I just—I mean I can't believe you're five months pregnant and I'm just finding out about it now," John said, shooting a sideways glare to Sherlock.

"Sorry," he shrugged, winking at Hamish as he did so.

Molly laughed. "Oh it's okay," she said, placing her hand on John's arm and giving a reassuring squeeze.

"Umm... Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, using one finger to gently prod Sherlock's neck.

"Yes, Hamish?"

The little boy thought for a moment, before gesturing for Sherlock to lean down. Lips turning up at the corners, the detective bent down, allowing Hamish to whisper into his ear.

"Aunt Molly an' baby? What?" he whispered, glancing towards Molly's stomach.

"Oh! Right! Yes, Hamish. Molly has a baby in her tummy right now," he said excitedly, grinning at the way the little boy turned back to Molly, his mouth hanging open, and his eyes wide with sheer wonder.

"Molly mummy?" he cried, glancing excitedly at Sherlock.

"Yes, Hamish. Very good! Aunt Molly is going to be a mummy very soon. In fact," he added, bending down to whisper in his son's ear. "I'll bet if you ask very, very nicely, she'll even let you feel her tummy, and you can feel the baby kicking."

"Wow! Real Daddy?" he asked in an amazed voice.

"Really," Sherlock said earnestly, smiling lovingly as Hamish gasped out loud.

"Aunt Molly? Hame tummy?" he asked hopefully.

"Oh. Oh! Yeah, yes of course you can, Hamish. Here. Give me your hands." Smiling sweetly as she saw Hamish's eyes widen in anticipation, Molly lifted up her shirt, holding both of the little boy's small hands in her own.

"Okay... Here. And here," she said, placing Hamish's hands on either side of her stomach.

The three shared a smile as Hamish stared intently at Molly's stomach, now completely serious at the prospect of actually _feeling_ a baby.

Returning her gaze back to Hamish, Molly placed both of her hands over Hamish's tiny ones.

The room was silent as the little boy stared excitedly at Molly's stomach, practically frozen in Sherlock's arms.

Suddenly, Hamish gasped out loud. He looked up into Molly's eyes and then quickly back towards her stomach.

"Daddy!" cried, looking back to stare at Sherlock, a wide grin on his face, amazement accentuation his sweet features.

Practically bouncing with excitement in his father's arms, Hamish grabbed one of Sherlock's hands and began tugging on his fingers. "Come, Daddy."

"What? Oh. No, Hamish. It's okay. I don't need to feel, really—" But the little boy had already started to drag his hand towards Molly's stomach.

"'Ease Daddy?" he whispered excitedly.

Sherlock stared at the little boy, willing himself to just say no. But upon seeing the expectant look on his small face, the detective sighed, smiling lovingly at his son.

"Fine," he murmured quietly. "Molly?" He glanced at her for reassurance.

"Of course," she replied quietly, smiling fondly at father and son.

"Here, Daddy," Hamish told the detective excitedly, pressing his chubby hand against Molly's stomach. Giving the little boy a quick smile, Sherlock hesitantly placed his hand over Hamish's, now very uncomfortable from touching Molly's pregnant belly.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish reassured quietly, giving the detective a small smile. "'Kay... Shh."

The room went silent again. Sherlock waited awkwardly, desperately wanting to removed his hand, but remaining perfectly still for the sake of Hamish.

And then he felt it. Almost like a fluttering underneath his palm. And then like a pop, or a kick.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried triumphantly. Only making Molly laugh more, he leaned forward, pressing his ear just above her bellybutton.

"Wow," Sherlock sighed in bewilderment. "That was amazing," he murmured, smiling fondly at Hamish, whose mouth was hanging open as he listened intently to Molly's stomach.

"Aunt Molly mummy!" the little boy exclaimed happily, withdrawing both his hands and his head from her stomach. He turned around, wrapping his arms around the detective in a tight hug.

"Wow, Daddy," he murmured excitedly.

"Yes, I know, Hamish," Sherlock replied quietly, whispering into his son's hair. "That was amazing, wasn't it?"

"'Es, Daddy!" he replied enthusiastically, nodding up and down against Sherlock's chest. "Again?" he asked hopefully.

"As long as Aunt Molly is okay with it," the detective smiled, brushing away some of the little boy's curls from his forehead.

"Oh, of course," Molly replied happily. "Here. I can take him while you two... Do your thing."

Chuckling, Sherlock passed Hamish back over to Molly. Instantly, the little boy pressed his hands to her stomach, going completely silent as he waited to feel the baby move again.

Both smiling fondly at the little boy, John and Sherlock turned back towards the microscopes.

Bouncing Hamish in her arms, Molly began to pace around the lab, talking to the little boy.

* * *

"Come on, Hamish!" Sherlock called excitedly several hours later, getting up from where he was seated at a microscope. "We've got what we came for! Finally."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish said sadly, turning to Molly who was seated on the floor next to him. "Bye, Aunt Molly." Smiling at her, he scooted forward and wrapped his arms around her neck. He gave her cheek a quick kiss, and then bent down and placed his hands on her stomach. "Bye, bye, 'aby," he whispered quietly, pressing another tender kiss to her belly.

"Bye, Hamish. Thank you for everything. You're simply wonderful," she murmured, wrapping her arms around the little boy to give him a hug.

John and Sherlock stood, staring fondly at the little boy. The doctor hurried forward to help Molly up while Sherlock crouched down and began to put away the many toys and coloring utensils that were scattered across the floor.

"Bye, bye Molly an' baby," Hamish whispered again as Molly passed him to John. He gave a small little wave of his hand.

John smiled down at the little boy in his arms. "You really _are_ wonderful, aren't you?" he chuckled, hugging the little boy close. He turned his attention back to Molly and rushed forward to give her a tight hug.

"I'm sorry to hear about everything. But, listen, if you need anything—ever, no matter the time of day—you give us a call, and we'll be right over to help, okay?" he said, running a soothing hand up and down her arm.

Eyes filling with tears, she reached forward, giving John another tight hug. "Thank you. Thank you, very much."

"'Course," John smiled. He turned his attention to Hamish. "Well! I say we head back to the Yard and let Daddy carry both the bags this time," he said smugly, not looking back at Sherlock who had already slung one bag over his shoulder.

"Yes, John," he sighed, standing up with the second bag in hand. "You two head over, I'll follow in a moment."

"Daddy?" Hamish asked, turning around in Sherlock's arms.

"Don't worry, Hamish. I'll be there in just a moment," the detective said reassuringly, giving the little boy a warm smile.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy."

"Good boy," John praised, turning to walk out the door.

"Bye, Molly!" he called again.

"Bye, bye 'aby!" Hamish shouted back just as the doors swung shut.

Sherlock chuckled, gazing fondly towards the doorway.

"Thank you," Molly whispered quietly, pulling the detective's attention away from the door.

"Oh. Well, yes of course Molly. It's not a problem."

She smiled, peering down at the floor as she paused for a moment. "You already knew what was happening as soon as you walked in, didn't you?" she asked fondly, giving the detective a knowing look.

"I—Well—Yes. Yes I'm afraid I did. I'm sorry I can't—"

"Thank you so much, Sherlock," Molly cried, wrapping her arms around the detective. She sniffled, wiping away her happy tears. "And now I'm crying again," she chuckled, pulling away from Sherlock.

"Right. Well, I'd best be off. Hamish is probably going to be becoming rather cranky here soon, and uh... Well let's just say I'd hate to leave John alone at the Yard if and when that happens," he said, giving Molly a reassuring smile. He bent down, and picked up both of the bags, slinging one over his shoulder.

"Bye, Molly," he said, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

"See you Sherlock," Molly giggled back, placing one hand over her stomach.

Smiling at her, Sherlock waved one last goodbye before hurrying out of the room.

* * *

After excitedly telling Lestrade of his findings (where the kidnapper would have been at precisely 7:15 on the day of the murder) Sherlock hurried back home, hoping to get Hamish to bed early tonight, seeing as he'd not been able to take a nap at all today and was becoming rather restless.

"Daddy, tired," the little moaned, leaning back against Sherlock's stomach in the cab, too tired to peer out the window at the lights, now that it was dark out.

"I know you are," Sherlock said, slowly rubbing his thumb back and forth across the little boy's stomach. He bent down to press a light kiss to Hamish's auburn hair. "And you did a wonderful job today. I'm very proud of you, Hamish," he praised happily, tightening his grip around his son's middle.

"Ta, Daddy," the little boy replied tiredly, turning around so he could lean against Sherlock. Placing one hand under his head, he snuggled closer, finding a comfortable position before closing his eyes tiredly.

John chuckled, and then turned his attention to Sherlock. "Four months... And you knew for four months," he sighed incredulously, giving a slight roll of his eyes.

"John," Sherlock whined, returning the look with his own royal eye roll. "I'm sorry! It just sort of slipped my mind."

"Yeah, yeah I know," John chuckled, trying to hide his smile by gazing out the window.

The two sat in comfortable silence all the way home, with Hamish snoozing soundly against Sherlock's stomach, practically curled up into a little ball.

"No, no, it's okay, I'll get both the bags. You take him up and get him into bed," John whispered upon seeing how his flat mate was having trouble holding the sleeping Hamish and grabbing a bag.

"Thank you, John," Sherlock whispered back thankfully, stepping out of the cab.

He hurried inside, careful to leave the door open so John could get through more easily.

"Ohh," he sighed gently as he walked into his room. "Shh, there we go," he said, lying the still-sleeping boy down so he could change his nappy. "Sorry, Hamish," he apologized quietly as the little boy awoke, groaning as the detective continued to change his nappy.

"Daddy," he whined, halfheartedly trying to push Sherlock's hands away.

Chuckling at his son, Sherlock finished the nappy, deciding to leave Hamish in just his nappy tonight.

He hugged the little boy close, bouncing gently as he walked over to the bed.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, gently tapping Sherlock's chest as he did so.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock asked gently.

"Um... Why Mon'ov'on... On... Onan," he said slowly, trying pronounce Donovan's last name.

"Donovan," Sherlock smiled, helping the little boy.

"'Es. Why said Daddy freak? What freak?"

"Oh," Sherlock sighed sadly. He began to pace around the room, absentmindedly puling Hamish closer. "Well... I'm afraid that as you get older, you're going to find out that I'm a little different than most people," Sherlock began quietly, whispering to Hamish who, though tired, was clinging on to his father's every word.

Smiling sadly at his son, Sherlock began to rub his hand up and down the little boy's back as he continued, "Well, sometimes, there are mean people, people like Donovan, who believe that because you're different, you're somehow bad. And 'freak' is a very mean word to call someone when they're different... It's very mean."

"Make Daddy sad?" Hamish asked worriedly.

"Umm... No. Not anymore," Sherlock said gently, brushing his fingers across Hamish's smooth cheek.

"Hame no 'ink Daddy freak," the little boy whispered, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest. "Hame 'ove Daddy. No freak. 'Ove."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh sadly, feeling an overwhelming sense of love for this little boy.

"Thank you, Hamish. That means more to me than you can possibly know," he murmured, bending down rest his head on top of Hamish's silky hair.

"No Daddy be sad. Hame 'ove... No sad?"

Feeling that familiar warmth flood his entire body, Sherlock laid down on the bed, pulling Hamish close to his face.

"No," he whispered. "I'm not sad. I'm actually... So incredibly happy, Hamish. Thank you, so very much. I love you, Hamish." He leaned forward, tenderly kissing Hamish's nose.

"Mmm," the little boy hummed, closing his eyes. "Hame nigh night' here?" he asked tiredly, already crawling off of Sherlock's chest.

"Of course you can, Hamish," Sherlock whispered happily. He quickly pulled off his jacket, tossing it aside, and then rolled over, pausing to stare lovingly at Hamish's small form. "Mmm," the little boy sighed happily, curling into a ball as he waited for his father.

Tenderly, Sherlock crawled back into the bed, lying on his side, and gently pulled Hamish close to his torso.

"Mmm... No Daddy freak," the little boy mumbled to himself as his eyes began to slide shut. "'Ove Daddy," he whispered, kissing the closest thing he could find, which happened to be Sherlock's arm.

The detective chuckled, a mix of sadness, happiness, but mostly an overwhelming sense of love causing his eyes to burn.

"Nigh, nigh, Daddy," Hamish barely managed before he quickly fell asleep, wrapped in his father's loving embrace.

"Good night, Hamish. Thank you." Overcome with emotion, he bent down, pressing his lips to the top of Hamish's hair. "I love you."

That night, Sherlock did not sleep. The words, "No Daddy freak," kept playing over and over in his mind, and each time, he thought he felt a little bit more love for the sleeping boy wrapped tightly in his arms.


	18. Chapter Eighteen: Scars

**Hey guys! So I _finally_ proofread this thing. So sorry for all the mistakes! Hope it's better now! =) Also, I was kind of unsure about the beginning with the reading and everything, so some feedback about that would be awesome. ;) Thanks, guys! Have a great rest of your week! =)**

Chapter Eighteen: Scars

" 'Will you help me make the flour?' asked Little Red Hen."

"No," whispered Hamish, shaking his head solemnly as Sherlock turned the page of the book.

" 'Mmm... No,' said the rat, the cat, and the dog... 'Then I will make it all by myself,' said Little Red Hen."

"An' she did," Hamish murmured.

"And she did," Sherlock repeated slowly, gazing down at the little boy.

Hamish, who was tightly snuggled in between Sherlock's arm, his head resting on the detective's chest, turned around when his father stopped reading.

"Daddy," he giggled, tugging on the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt.

"What? Oh no. I was doing it again, wasn't I?" the detective said, smiling down at his son.

Hamish giggled. "'Es, Daddy."

Sherlock chuckled. "Sorry, love. Here. How about we take a quick bath, and then finish the book before going to sleep, hmm?"

"Yay, Daddy! Bath!"

Hamish was practically vibrating with excitement. Bathtime was definitely his favorite nighttime activity. He crawled onto Sherlock's stomach, trying to get his father to move more quickly.

"Come, Daddy!"

"All right, all right," Sherlock chuckled, placing Hamish on the ground. He smiled as the little boy toddled over to the bathroom door, bouncing up and down on his chubby legs as he waited for Sherlock to come and open the door.

"I'm coming, I'm coming, don't worry," the detective chuckled, reaching over and opening the door.

"Ta, Daddy!" Hamish called cheerfully, running into the bathroom. As Sherlock got up off the bed, the little boy opened the cabinet under the sink, pulling out his favorite bath toy, a large plastic toy boat. Toy in hand, he hurried over to the bathtub, moving his arms up and down as Sherlock started the water running.

"In 'ease, Daddy?"

"I'm getting there," Sherlock chuckled, bending down to pull off the little boy's shirt. Trying to maneuver around Hamish's excited bouncing, he managed to remove Hamish's trousers and nappy.

"There you go," he sighed dramatically, placing the little boy in the tub.

Hamish squealed happily as the tub continued to fill up, kicking his feet up and down, and splashing water out of the tub.

"Hamish!" Sherlock cried, quickly stepping out of the way of the water, which only caused the little boy to laugh more.

Seeing that there would probably be a lot of splashing tonight, he quickly pulled off his button up, tossing it into the other room, and then knelt down by the tub, reaching one hand in to playfully ruffle Hamish's hair.

"Let's keep the splashing to a minimum tonight, okay?" he chuckled, turning the water off.

"'Kay Daddy. Hame try."

"Thank you," Sherlock sighed happily. He reached behind him, opening the cabinet to grab some soap, a washcloth, and a small plastic cup.

"Okay, Hamish. Time to wash your hair."

"Mmm," the little boy grumbled, releasing his toy boat and letting it float in the water. He reached both of his hands out, cupping them to make a sort of cup. Smiling a half-smile, Sherlock dumped a tiny bit of soap into the little boy's hands, knowing he liked to 'wash' his own hair.

Hamish muttered unintelligibly to himself as he threw his arms up, pressing the small amount of soap in his hands to the top of his head.

"Good, Daddy," he said with a nod of his head. He tried to hurry away towards the end of the tub, where the boat was now floating.

"Nope!" Sherlock laughed, reaching towards Hamish. In one swift, though careful, movement, he pulled the little boy back towards the other end of the tub. "Not quite," he said, smiling to himself.

Keeping one hand around Hamish's middle, he reached for the bottle of soap, pouring a small amount of the sweet-smelling liquid onto the little boy's wet curls. Letting go of his son's stomach, Sherlock began to gently wash Hamish's silky hair, running his fingers over the little boy's scalp, tickling him as he did so.

"Mmm," Hamish mumbled, desperately trying to pout, rather than laugh. Giving up, he giggled loudly, trying to shove Sherlock's hands away. "Daddy!" he laughed, wrapping both of his chubby hands around one of the detective's wrists.

Grinning, Sherlock quickly finished washing Hamish's hair and body, and then allowed the little boy to make him something (supposedly a dog) out of bubbles.

"Wow, Hamish. That's beautiful, thank you!" he praised, smiling at the proud look on Hamish's face. "Here you go," he murmured, passing the small mass of bubbles back to Hamish, who then delicately placed it at the end of the tub.

"A few more minutes, then it's time to get out, okay?"

"Mmmkay, Daddy," Hamish replied distractedly, too busy playing with the bubbles to listen to Sherlock.

The detective turned his attention back to Hamish, grinning warmly as the little boy began to murmur to himself, running his chubby fingers through the water. A wide grin spread across his small face as he scooped up a small pile of the bubbles, thrusting his arms into the air. Then, now with a very concentrated look on his face, he stuck out his bottom lip, and threw his arms back down, splashing them against the water. The smile returned to his face, and he squealed happily, running his chubby fingers through the water.

"Mmm," he murmured happily to himself, pressing the palms of his hands together.

Sherlock watched the little boy with a serious face, feeling that familiar warmth spread through his veins.

"Come on, Hamish," he murmured, moving forward. "Time to dry off."

The little boy pulled his attention away from his hands to gaze at Sherlock. "Oh. 'Kay, Daddy," he said sadly, using the side of the tub to pull himself up into a standing position.

Sherlock waited patiently while the water drained from the tub. He grabbed the plastic cup, turning around towards the sink to fill it with warm water.

Cup in hand, he turned back to Hamish, who was still standing, gripping tightly onto the side of the tub.

"Okay. Time for the rinse. Ready?"

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy replied, giving a small nod of his head before squeezing his eyes shut in preparation.

Smiling at his son, Sherlock squatted down and placed his free hand just above Hamish's eyes, creating a sort of wall so Hamish wouldn't accidently inhale any of the water or get it in his eyes.

"Ready? One, two, three." The detective quickly dumped the water over Hamish's head, rinsing away the last of the suds.

"All done," he said happily, brushing some of Hamish's wet hair away from his eyes.

"'Es," the little boy answered, gripping onto the side of the tub as he shivered.

"I'll get a towel." Sherlock quickly turned around, dropping the cup in he tub, and then made to grab a towel for the cold little boy. He spun around on his heel, though, upon hearing a loud gasp from Hamish.

Instinctively, he thrust his arms out, thinking the little boy had slipped and fallen.

"Oh," he sighed in relief when he saw Hamish still standing, perfectly fine. The detective's brows pulled together, though, upon seeing the worried look on his son's face.

"Hamish?" he asked, concerned. Bending down he quickly scooped up the little boy and pulled him close to his bare chest, not caring about whether or not he got wet.

"Hamish, please. Tell me what's wrong? Are you hurt?" he asked frantically.

"Daddy," Hamish sighed in awe, tears filling his eyes.

"What—"

"Daddy!" Hamish quickly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pressing his face into the space at the base of his neck.

"Hamish, I don't understand. What's wrong?" The detective knew that Hamish had a tendency to become very moody at night, and he hoped the little boy was just suffering from tiredness or anger at having been taken out of the bath.

"'Ook, Daddy." Teary-eyed, Hamish looked up, pointing at the mirror behind Sherlock. He let go of the detective's neck with one arm and placed his chubby hand just above Sherlock's shoulder blade.

"Oh, Daddy," he sighed sadly, staring at the mirror as a single tear fell from his eyes.

Not understanding, Sherlock quickly turned his head around to see what Hamish had told him to look at.

"Oh," he sighed, almost in relief, upon seeing Hamish's small hand covering a large scar on his back.

"Ouch, Daddy," Hamish cried, curling his hand into a fist as he tucked his head back into the detective's neck.

"Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, reaching down for the towel he had dropped. "It's okay. It's just a scar; it doesn't hurt anymore. There's no need to cry," he whispered, wrapping the towel around the little boy's small body.

"No, Daddy," Hamish cried, clinging to his father. "'Ook." Sniffling, he pointed to his own collarbone with a shaking finger and peered up at the detective with watery eyes.

Squinting at the spot where Hamish had pointed, Sherlock left the bathroom and sat down on the bed. He looked carefully at his son's collarbone. His breath suddenly caught in his throat as his eyes fell upon a very tiny scar spreading across Hamish's clavicle.

"Hamish," he breathed, trying desperately to catch the breath that had suddenly escaped him. He couldn't believe he had never noticed the scar before.

"Ouch, Daddy," Hamish sniffled, staring sadly up at Sherlock. "Hame ouch an' Daddy."

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, an unexplainable wave of sadness crashing over him. "You've been hurt like me, haven't you… Hamish can you tell me how you got that?" Sherlock murmured quietly. Gently, he moved the little boy to his lap, splaying one of his large hands across his son's back to keep him from falling backward.

Sniffling, Hamish dropped his own small hand, letting it rest on the detective's leg. "No, Daddy," he said quietly, closing his eyes. "Bad." Tears brimming in his eyes again, he looked back up at his father.

"Bad," the detective echoed quietly. Brows drawn together, he slowly moved his hand towards his son's neck. Still supporting the little boy with his other hand, he quickly brushed his thumb over the tiny scar, struggling to contain the strange sense of guilt he felt. He stared at the small white slash that traveled over his son's otherwise smooth skin.

Gently, almost as if he was trying not to hurt the little boy, Sherlock let is finger slide across Hamish's pale skin again. "Hamish," he whispered sadly, staring into the watery eyes of his son.

"Ouch, Daddy..." Hamish murmured back, his mouth pulling down into a sad frown another wave of tears threatened to fall. "Da'ey," he cried, leaning forward, sniffling as he let his head gently bump against his father's stomach.

"I'm here," Sherlock murmured, staring sadly down at Hamish as he started to rub soothing circles up and down his son's bare back. As he felt the little boy start to cry against him, he felt an unimaginable anger burning his stomach; now there was a physical reminder of the past Hamish had experienced, something they were both hoping to forget. But now this scar, this incredibly tiny line of discoloration on his son's collar, would forever be a constant reminder of everything the little boy had suffered through.

Suddenly, Sherlock felt an overwhelming burning sensation; he wanted to hurt the people who had abused the beautiful baby in his arms; hurt the person who had given Hamish the scar on his neck.

"Daddy get ouch?" Hamish whispered quietly against Sherlock's stomach, pulling the detective away from his thoughts. "'Ook?" A sad look still on his face, he scooted backward, pulling his head as he haphazardly placed one of his chubby hands on Sherlock's chest, the other on his arm.

Smiling sadly, Sherlock picked the little boy up, keeping him wrapped in the towel, and placed him on the other side of the bed. Then, keeping a watchful eye on Hamish, he laid down on his stomach. "Over here, Hamish." Offering the little boy his hand, he simultaneously scooted to the middle of the bed and guided Hamish onto his back. "Right here," he murmured, pointing to his own, much larger scar.

"Oh, Daddy," Hamish sighed sadly. He leaned forward, moving one of his chubby hands towards the detective's back. "Ouch, Daddy," he murmured, pressing his small hand over the scar. Babbling unintelligibly to himself, he began to trace the almost-white skin with one of his chubby fingers. His small features pulled together in concentration as his finger stopped moving. Sticking his lip out, he pressed both of his small hands just behind Sherlock's shoulder blade, trying to cover the scar.

"What, Daddy?" he asked quietly, crawling off his father's back.

"How did I get the scar?" Sherlock questioned, sitting back up. He quickly slid off the bed, and grabbed a nappy for Hamish before sitting back down on the bed.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy answered, giving a tired nod of his head. Sherlock quickly discarded the wet towel and put on Hamish's nappy. He then pulled the little boy into his arms, and set him down in his lap.

"Well, Hamish, you see—" The detective stopped abruptly. "Oh... Um... When I was little, Uncle Mycroft and I were playing together, and I fell down and ended up cutting my back on some sharp rocks. That's all," he murmured quietly, brushing away some of Hamish's still-wet hair.

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief. Tiredly, he leaned his head against Sherlock's stomach, and peered up at the detective, a content smile now gracing his lips. "So Daddy no ouch?" he asked hopefully, absentmindedly wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's thumb.

"Yes, Hamish. There's no ouch. I promise."

Hamish closed his eyes, leaning his small body further into Sherlock's torso. "Good. Daddy 'etter."

Sherlock smiled sadly, squeezing his eyes shut as painful images began to flash across his memory. _Night. Dark. Alcohol. Glass... Broken... Scar..._

"Daddy?"

Sherlock opened his eyes, and peered down at Hamish, his mouth hanging open slightly as he quickly chased the memory away.

"Yes, Hamish?" he whispered quietly.

"Umm..." the little boy began slowly, now engrossed in playing with his father's fingers. Sherlock gazed lovingly at the little boy, focusing on his sweet features as he felt the calming sensation of Hamish's chubby fingers running across his own.

Face scrunched up in concentration, Hamish focused all of his attention of his father's hand. "Uh," he grunted quietly, moving Sherlock's hand onto his own lap. Delicately, he turned the detective's hand until it was facing palm up.

"Mmm," he murmured, grabbing two of Sherlock's fingers in his hands. "Ddd... Hmm," he babbled, lifting his father's hand into the air so as to examine it. He quickly moved Sherlock's large hand back into his lap, and pressed the palm of his own small hand against the palm of his father's.

Though it went unnoticed by Hamish, Sherlock leaned down, and gently kissed the little boy on side of his forehead. Using his free hand, he pulled Hamish closer to his chest, smiling fondly as he felt the little boy's hand curl and uncurl against his palm.

"Bbbmmm." Frowning slightly, Hamish hastily pressed both of his hands against Sherlock's palm, trying to spread them apart. He grunted unhappily and began to push harder against his father's hand.

"Hamish," Sherlock chuckled happily, pushing the thought of the scar away. He wrapped his slender fingers around both of Hamish's small hands, and moved them to his mouth, gently giving each one a light kiss. "It's okay," he reassured happily, keeping his son's chubby hands wrapped in his own.

"But, Daddy—" Hamish argued, scrunching his face together.

"Yes, I know," the detective chuckled. "Your hands are supposed to be small. Besides," he added, upon seeing the frown on his son's face, "I think you're beautiful just the way you are." He smiled reassuringly and began to play with some of the little boy's curls.

"Daddy? What b... batfml?" he asked confusedly.

"_Beautiful_," Sherlock corrected happily. "And beautiful is just another word for pretty, it just has a deeper meaning."

"Oh," Hamish replied quietly, trying to understand. "Daddy 'ink Hame bat'm'ful?"

Sherlock smiled fondly, and nodded. "Yes. I think you're beautiful."

The little boy grinned tiredly, and attempted to stand up in his father's lap.

"What is it, Hamish?" Sherlock asked, helping the little boy to stand up and keeping a firm hand on his bare back to keep him steady.

"Hame 'ink Daddy bat'm'ful," he stated happily.

Sherlock smiled warmly. "You think I'm beautiful, hmm? Well, thank you, Hamish," he chuckled contently.

"'Es, Daddy. 'Ook." Gazing at his father, Hamish placed both of his hands on either side of the detective's cheeks, letting them resting in the hollow. "Bat'mmm'ul," he stated firmly. He then tenderly placed both of his hands over Sherlock's eyelids. The detective closed his eyes, smiling as he heard Hamish repeat, "Bat'um'ful."

Keeping his eyes closed, he listened as his son gently touched his hair—"bat'm'ful"—and the gap at the base of his neck—"bat'ma'ful"—and then lastly, each of his hands—"bat'm'ful..."

He opened his eyes and grinned tenderly at his son. "Hame 'ink Daddy bat'um'ful," the little boy smiled. "Umm, Daddy? Hame nigh' night at Daddy?" he added quietly, letting one small hand rest on the detective's bare shoulder.

"You want to sleep with me tonight?" Sherlock asked warmly, already pulling the little boy onto his chest.

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. Can?"

"Of course you can." He leaned down, gently kissing the little boy on the cheek as he felt Hamish yawn against his shoulder.

"Mmm. Ta, Daddy. Nigh' night." Sighing contently against his father's neck, Hamish snuggled into Sherlock's embrace, closing his eyes as he yawned again, the sound making the corner of his father's lips twitch upwards in a smile.

"Nigh' night, Hamish." Sherlock slowly stood up off the bed and pulled on a t-shirt, trying not to jostle the almost-asleep child on his chest.

"We're going to go out and sit in the sitting room with John, okay?"

"Mmkay, Da'ey," Hamish whispered as his eyes fluttered closed.

"Good," Sherlock murmured, placing one of his hands on the back of the little boy's head. He exited the room and slowly sat down in his chair, across from John, who was reading a book in his own chair.

"Oh. Hey," John whispered quietly, gazing at his two flat mates. "Didn't want to sleep alone, tonight, hmm?" he asked, giving Sherlock a small smile.

"No," the detective began quietly, staring absentmindedly at the floor. "He uh—" Sherlock quietly cleared his throat. "Saw my scar for the first time. He was quite shaken by it, seeing as he has one of his own." The detective looked back at his friend, a hint of pain in his eyes.

"From the orphanage?" John asked, concerned. He saw Sherlock give a terse nod of his head, and knew that this was obviously a sore subject for his friend. "Right." He paused, putting his book in his lap. "Did you tell him?" he asked quietly, raising his eyebrows at Sherlock.

The detective shook his head as he gazed down at Hamish nestled firmly against his chest. "No," he murmured. "He's already experienced enough pain in his life. I don't need to add to it by teaching him that mother's and father's can hurt their babies, too. For now, he just needs to know that he has a family who loves him. For now, that's enough."

John nodded solemnly, and peered at the sleeping little boy. "Well, I certainly can't disagree with that," he murmured.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered back. "Besides, he'd become even more distressed if he knew what happened to _him_ was also done to me by my own father. I'll spare him from that for as long as possible."

"Right. Poor thing."

Sherlock nodded again. Smiling sadly at his son, he bent down, and tenderly pressed his lips to the small scar on Hamish's collarbone, almost as if he was hoping he could wash away the small slash, and therefore erase the pain of his son's past.

John smiled at his friend, still not completely used to this _very_ different side of Sherlock, which was clearly reserved for only Hamish. "'Night, you two," he whispered, smiling, and leaving his book on the arm of his chair.

"Goodnight John." Sherlock paused, squinting at the doctor. A smug look on his face, he gazed at his flat mate. "And I see congratulations are in order. Best of luck for tomorrow. It's about time. I've been waiting for you to get the courage to ask her. You have nothing to worry about; she's already planning on saying yes."

John rolled his eyes, smiling to himself. "Thanks, Sherlock," he chuckled happily, gazing back at the detective with a small smile. "How long have you known?"

Sherlock smiled slyly. "Long before you did, John," he stated smugly.

John laughed. "Right." Shaking his head, he hurried up the stairs, smiling to himself.

Still smirking, Sherlock turned is attention back to the sleeping little boy on his chest. He listened in the dark as Hamish began to talk to himself in his sleep, making quiet gurgling noises.

Smiling, Sherlock pressed another gentle kiss to his son's collarbone. "Goodnight, Hamish."


	19. Chapter Nineteen: A Proposal

Chapter Nineteen: A Proposal

At some point during the night, Hamish decided he no longer had an interest in sleeping. He tiredly opened his eyes, and shoved his face against Sherlock's chest. "Ahh," he yawned, moaning softly against the detective's shirt.

Scrunching his eyes shut, and shaking his head a little, Hamish squirmed in Sherlock's tight embrace, trying to free his arms. "Daddy?" he grunted tiredly.

Usually, it was a rarity for Sherlock to sleep at all, so when he actually _did_ rest, it was usually very difficult to wake him up.

"Uh," Hamish huffed. He stared up at the detective with a careful gaze.

Sherlock's head was resting on the back of his chair, a peaceful look on his face.

"Da'ey 'ease up." Hamish squirmed again, this time freeing one of his hands from his father's tight hold around him. Tentatively, he reached up, and poked Sherlock's face with one of his chubby fingers. "Daddy," he whispered loudly, turning his head towards John's room, as if he were afraid he would wake the doctor up. "Daddy. Hame up… 'Ease?" Sherlock sighed in his sleep, the noise rumbling and low. Hamish giggled. "Daddy. Up 'ease." He prodded at the detective's face once again.

"Hamish?" Sherlock murmured groggily, his eyes fluttering open. He moaned quietly as he looked down to see a very wide-awake Hamish peering up at him with expectant eyes.

"Morn', Daddy. Hame up," the little boy whispered happily, freeing his other arm from Sherlock's grasp.

"Mmm. Yes. I can see that. May I ask _why_ you're up?" the detective groaned, shifting in his chair, and closing his eyes once again. He pulled Hamish closer to his chest, pressing gently on Hamish's back with his hand.

"Hame up," the little boy stated plainly, giving the detective a look, which clearly said: _I thought you were supposed to be smart._

Sherlock tiredly opened his eyes and chuckled as he saw the look his son was giving him.

"Right," he chuckled. "You're up because you're up. Well I suppose I can't argue with your logic." The detective paused, fixing Hamish with a tired stare. "Ugh, fine," he groaned, stand up. He sat the little boy on the ground.

"Yay, Daddy!" Hamish cheered, bouncing up and down on his chubby legs. He ran over to his toy bin, and turned back to his father, waiting anxiously for the detective to come and grab his desired toys. "Come, Daddy," he called.

Sherlock yawned widely, sighing as he heard Hamish beckoning for him. "I'm coming, I'm coming. Shh. You need to be quiet. You might wake John," he whispered, meandering over to the little boy.

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered.

Sherlock chuckled half-heartedly as he reached the toy bin. "Okay. Which ones would you like?"

"'Uzz an' draw!" Hamish squealed happily. "Oh!" he gasped, quickly covering his mouth with his chubby hands. "Soh, Daddy."

"It's okay, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, grabbing several puzzles and one of Hamish's coloring books, along with the box of crayons. "Okay," he sighed dramatically. "Come on, then. Let's go to my room."

"'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish whispered excitedly, toddling towards his father's bedroom.

Despite his tiredness, Sherlock smiled to himself, slowly following the little boy, toys in hand.

"Up we go," he groaned softly, lifting the little boy onto his bed. "Okay, Hamish. Which one first?" Sherlock yawned again as Hamish pointed to one of the puzzles. Smiling, the little boy crawled over towards Sherlock, who had lain down on his back, letting his head rest on the pillows.

"Puzzle. Right," he murmured quietly, rolling on his side as Hamish crawled next to his stomach, snuggling his small form tightly against the detective's stomach, already pulling one of the large pieces out of it's spot.

Trying to keep his eyes open, Sherlock twirled some of Hamish's hair between his fingers, smiling tiredly at the ticklish feeling of his son giggling against his stomach.

* * *

When John awoke, already feeling giddy at the prospect of what was awaiting for that day, he hurriedly got dressed (in what he knew was Mary's favorite jumper) and made his way down the stairs, grinning widely, with a small skip in his step. He hummed happily to himself as he reached the bottom of the stairs and walked into the flat.

"Oh!" he said, upon seeing an exhausted looking Sherlock playing with a very happy Hamish on the floor.

"Morning, John," Sherlock said, gazing tiredly up at his flat mate from where he was sitting on the ground.

"Morning," John chuckled, walking further into the room. "How long have you been up?" he asked, chuckling as Sherlock groaned quietly.

"Seven hours, fourteen minutes and twenty-one seconds."

"Oh. Umm… How about I watch him for a little while and you go and take a rest, hmm?" he asked cheerily, bending down and taking ahold of Hamish's chubby hand to help him with a puzzle.

"Yes, please. Thank you, John," Sherlock sighed happily, pushing himself up off the ground.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked worriedly upon seeing his father stand up.

"It's okay, Hamish. I'm just going to take a quick nap. John's going to be with you." He gave the little boy a reassuring smile and quickly bent down to press a kiss to Hamish's forehead.

"Oh. 'Kay. Nigh' night, Daddy."

Sherlock smiled tiredly, and hurried away to his room, glad for the opportunity to rest.

John chuckled and turned his attention back to Hamish. "Didn't want to sleep, huh?" he asked, gazing around the flat at the many toys, puzzles, and coloring books strewn across the floor.

"No, John. Hame up," the little boy replied happily, smiling triumphantly as he dropped a puzzle piece into its proper place.

John chuckled, smiling sweetly at the little boy. "Well, I couldn't really sleep either; it's kind of a big day for me!" he said enthusiastically, grinning at Hamish.

"What, John?" the little boy asked curiously. Puzzle now forgotten, he quickly crawled over to John, pulling himself into the doctor's lap.

"Well," John began excitedly, placing one hand on the little boy's back, "I'm going to ask Mary to marry me today! And your father told me last night that she's going to say yes." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "Which means she will. But you can't tell him that," he whispered loudly against Hamish's ear, causing the little boy to giggle.

"John," Hamish laughed, wrapping his arms around the doctor's arm.

John chuckled, hugging the little boy close. "Well! I say we get some breakfast, hmm? What would you like?" he asked cheerily, standing up with Hamish in his arms. "I can make anything."

"Umm… Cakes?" Hamish asked timidly, gripping tightly onto John's jumper with one hand.

"Pancakes? Sounds wonderful," John smiled.

* * *

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of a gentle knocking on his door.

"Mmm," he sighed gratefully, happy for the quick rest. "Yes, John?" he asked, keeping his eyes closed as he heard the doctor enter his room. The smell of pancakes flooded the area. Sherlock smiled. _Hamish's favorite._

"I'm off," the doctor said happily, still terribly excited at the prospect of what he was about to do.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried happily, practically bouncing in John's arms.

"Also," John chuckled, setting the little boy on the ground so he could run over to Sherlock's bed, "this little one was asking for you."

The detective chuckled to himself as he felt Hamish tugging on his hand, which was resting over the side of the bed.

"Up 'ease, Daddy?"

Smiling, Sherlock rolled over on the bed, and pulled Hamish onto his chest. He sat up, giving John a warm smile. "Good luck," he said encouragingly. Smiling at Hamish, the detective stood up and gave the doctor an awkward clap on the shoulder. "You'll do great."

John beamed. "Thanks, Sherlock! Right. Well I'll see you two later. I'm off!" Practically bouncing with excitement, John gave Hamish a large kiss on his cheek, and grinned at his two flatmates before hurrying out the door.

Sherlock turned his attention to Hamish, who was staring after John with an incredibly confused look on his face.

Grinning fondly at the little boy, Sherlock brushed some of Hamish's curly hair away from his forehead. "Come on, then," he murmured happily. "Let's go get some fresh air."

"Hmm? Oh! Park?" Hamish asked hopefully, absentmindedly wrapping his chubby fingers around the collar of his father's shirt.

"Yes. We need to tire you out anyway," Sherlock chuckled, smiling at the excited look on his son's face. "Let's go get ready, then, hmm?

"'Es, Daddy!"

Gazing fondly at Hamish, Sherlock moved the little boy to his hip and walked out of the room.

* * *

After both father and son had managed to get properly dressed, Sherlock in his signature suit and Hamish in jeans and a cute plaid button up, the two made their way down the stairs, Sherlock pulling on both of their coats as they went.

"Where are you two off to?"

Sherlock turned around to see Mrs. Hudson walking out of her flat.

"Oh," he sighed, setting Hamish on the ground to properly straighten his coat. "We're just going to the park for a little fresh air." Wrapping his fingers around Hamish's chubby hand, Sherlock stood back up, giving Mrs. Hudson a warm smile.

"Ah. I see," the landlady replied, grinning knowingly at Sherlock.

"Should be back soon," the detective said, opening the door. He quickly gave the landlady a little peck on her cheek and a smile. "Say bye-bye, Hamish."

"B-bye Nana!" the little boy called happily, giving a tiny wave of his hand.

"Bye, darling," Mrs. Hudson replied, smiling sweetly at the little boy as she waved back.

Smiling to himself, Sherlock gave his landlady one last smile before hurrying out the door with Hamish.

"Right, then," he sighed, looking in the direction of park. He situated his scarf around his neck, and then gazed back down at Hamish, who had started to talk to himself, wobbling back and forth on his chubby legs. "Ready?" he asked quietly, giving his son's hand a gentle squeeze.

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish replied, pulling his attention away from his thoughts. He grinned widely up at Sherlock and started to toddle forward, gripping tightly onto his father's hand.

* * *

Eventually, Sherlock and Hamish reached the park.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried happily, pointing towards his favorite toy set.

"Go ahead," Sherlock chuckled, releasing his grasp on his son's chubby hand.

Squealing with happiness, Hamish rushed forward and, under the watchful eye of Sherlock, began to play.

Lips turned up in a fond half-smile, Sherlock meandered over to the bench closest to Hamish and sat down, ready to rush over towards the little boy at any moment if necessary. Several weeks ago, Hamish had decided he was apparently 'far too old' to have Sherlock play with him, so the detective had resorted to just watching the little boy with a careful eye.

Grinning at his son, Sherlock stood up, walking closer to Hamish, who had now taken quite an interest in playing with the woodchips that covered the ground.

"Hamish," the detective warned as he saw the little boy try and shove the wood in his mouth.

Pouting slightly, Hamish pulled the wooden chip away from his mouth and decided to just give it a thorough examination.

Sherlock smiled at the little boy, chuckling to himself. He took a step forward so as to watch him more closely.

"Ava! Don't run, you might fall! Just—agh. Okay. Right."

Sherlock turned to his left to see a small girl hurry past him, giggling happily. She tripped over her own feet, and began to fall forward.

"Oh! There you go," Sherlock said, instinctively bending down to catch the little girl.

"'Tank you," she said cheerfully, clearly unfazed by her almost-accident. She hurried away, running towards Hamish.

Sherlock chuckled at the little girl as a woman, obviously Ava's mother, hurried up next to him.

"Thank you very much," she sighed, staring worryingly after the little girl.

"Of course." Sherlock gave a small nod of his head towards the flustered woman, already making inferences about her. _Single mother. Struggling to find a job. New boyfriend. Mother in hospital. No father._

His thoughts were interrupted as the woman continued to speak to him. "Is that little one yours?" she asked, nodding towards Hamish, who was gazing at Ava.

"Yes," Sherlock answered, smiling at his son.

"I can see the resemblance. He's beautiful." Not knowing how to respond, Sherlock gave the woman an awkward smile. Clearly unfazed, she continued. "How old is he?"

"Almost seventeen months."

"He's simply precious. My Ava's almost three. Oh! My name's Jess, by the way. Sorry about that. Oh!" she gasped excitedly, slapping her hand against Sherlock's arm. "Look at them!'

Trying not to stare at the woman, Jess, with an unusual look on his face, Sherlock turned his attention to what she had alerted him to. He felt his heart stop in his chest and his breath catch in his throat.

Hamish was giggling happily with Ava, grabbing onto the back of her pink shirt with one of his chubby hands as she started to run away, both laughing wildly with each other.

"Ava!" Hamish called happily, toddling after the little girl.

Sherlock stared after his son, as he felt his heart melt in his chest.

"Aww! I'd say they like each other, huh?" Jess said cheerfully, smiling at the two little kids.

"Mmm," was all Sherlock could manage. Trying to catch his breath, he watched as Hamish and Ava hurried back towards them.

"Who's that with you, Ava?" Jess asked, giving Sherlock a knowing smile, which the detective tried to return.

"Hamish, Mummy! He's fun!" Ava squealed happily, grabbing Hamish's arm with her own chubby hand.

Sherlock peered at Hamish, taking notice of the way the little boy was grinning happily at Ava.

"Hamish? Did you make a friend there?" he asked quietly, finally finding his voice.

"'Es, Daddy! Ava!" Smiling widely, Hamish hurried over to Sherlock and wrapped his chubby arms around the detective's leg, pressing his face into the soft fabric.

Sherlock felt a wave of relief wash over him as the tight feeling in his chest suddenly dissipated, and a fluttering sensation flitted through his stomach. He bent down, pulling Hamish into his arms, and pressed a gentle kiss to the little boy's brow as he finally understand the new emotions he was feeling.

"Ava, hmm? Well she seems very nice," he whispered playfully into Hamish's ear. The little boy giggled in his arms, placing one of his hands against Sherlock's lips.

"'Es, Daddy! Play at Ava?" he asked hopefully, keeping his chubby fingers pressed against his father's lips.

Gazing at Hamish with a tender look in his eyes, Sherlock eventually whispered, "Of course. Have fun." Staring at his son, the detective placed Hamish back on the ground, watching with a wistful look in his eyes as the little boy ran away with Ava, squealing happily.

"They're very cute together," Jess said, smiling at the two little kids.

"Mmm."

Jess began to chatter, not seeming to care, or even notice, that the detective was not listening to her.

Sherlock pushed his hands into his coat pockets as he began to mull over what had happened. He realized now that the strange constriction he had felt in his chest was a deep sense of protection for Hamish, as well as the mild shock he had felt. He focused his attention more on the fluttering sensation he had felt in his stomach and, upon coming to the realization, smiled to himself; _Hamish was not going to be like him_.

Somehow, upon seeing his son playing happily with Ava, he realized that his fears that Hamish would grow up to be like him—unusual, a freak, _different_—were all in vain. Hamish was normal. Hamish was socializing, just as Sherlock never had when he was young. He was going to be just fine. Hamish was wonderful and beautiful and simply perfect.

"Perfect," Sherlock murmured out loud, not even realizing he'd spoken.

"You think so? Great! We'll definitely have to get together, then, sometime so they can play some more!" Jess inputted happily, thinking Sherlock's words had been in response to her question.

"What? Oh! Umm... Sure I suppose that sounds fine," the detective answered awkwardly, turning his gaze back to Hamish. He barely noticed as Jess' phone began ringing.

"Yes?" she answered. "What? Oh! Of course, I'll be right over. Ava! Come on darling, we have to go... Quickly dear. Say goodbye to Hamish."

Sherlock watched fondly as the little girl pulled Hamish into a tight hug, which received a grunt of surprise from the little boy.

"Bye, Hamish!" Ava called, waving behind her as she hurried away towards her mother, who was already leaving the park.

Sherlock turned his attention back to Hamish, who was staring, wide-eyed, after Ava, with his mouth hanging open slightly.

"Daddy," the little boy sighed contently, slowly walking towards his father. Lips pressed together in a small grin, Sherlock picked up a very dazed-looking Hamish, pulling him onto his hip.

"Daddy... Ava baf'm'ful." The little boy gazed at the detective, and took a deep breath, a wistful look filling his deep green eyes.

Sherlock laughed out loud, pressing a cheerful kiss to Hamish's chubby cheek. "Ohhh, you are simply wonderful," he sighed happily, clutching the little boy close.

"'Ove Ava, Daddy," Hamish sighed, a small smile playing on his lips.

Sherlock grinned. "You do, huh? Well I suppose we'll just have to see her again, then won't we?"

Hamish shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts, and seemed to actually notice his father for the first time.

"Daddy!" he cried, now very happy, as he wrapped his chubby arms around the detective's neck. "'Ove Daddy!"

Sherlock chuckled, pressing one of his hands to the back of Hamish's head. "Well, I love you too, Hamish," he said, smiling into his son's auburn hair.

"Sherlock?" came the familiar voice of John.

Still holding Hamish close, Sherlock turned around to see John, one arm wrapped around Mary's waist, standing together on the sidewalk.

"We're just headed home. Want to follow?" the doctor called happily.

In response, Sherlock headed towards the couple, giving John a wide grin as he noticed the engagement ring on Mary's left ring finger. "Told you," he mouthed.

Grinning, and keeping his arm firmly around Mary's waist, John started to walk back to the flat, Sherlock and Hamish following closely behind.

Sleep—or rather lack thereof—finally catching up with him, Hamish snuggled into his father's coat, burrowing his face against Sherlock's neck. He yawned widely, now thoroughly tired out from all of his running around.

"Sure. _Now_ you decide to sleep," Sherlock mumbled, rolling his eyes. Hoping to help the little boy fall asleep, the detective, who was following closely behind Mary and John, began to rub his hand up and down Hamish's back in a soothing circular motion.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed, taking a deep breath against his father's neck. "Sleep, Da'ey?" he murmured, haphazardly pressing one of his chubby hands to Sherlock's jaw.

"It would be lovely if you did," the detective whispered back, turning his head to give Hamish a gentle kiss.

"Mmmkay, Da'ey."

The four continued walking home in peace, each person content for different reasons. John and Mary chatted happily with each other while Sherlock followed, absentmindedly pressing gentle kisses to Hamish's hair, and forehead and cheeks as the little boy nuzzled deeper against his neck.

"Yes, I know," John laughed. "I mean how—" Suddenly, an ear-piercing sound shattered the air, echoing loudly in the street. Instinctively, both John and Sherlock ducked their heads down.

"John!" Sherlock yelled, contorting his body in an attempt to shield all of Hamish's small form with his own.

"I know, I know!" John shouted back, placing his hand on Mary's back as the three of them began to run. "Hamish—" John started.

"Yes!" Sprinting as fast as he could, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Hamish, covering the back of the little boy's hand with one of his hands. Fear and adrenaline coursing through him, he pressed Hamish's small form close to his chest, tucking the little boy's head under his chin as the sound rippled through the air again...

_Gunshots_.


	20. Chapter Twenty: Ouch, Daddy?

**Hey, guys! I just wanted to quickly thank you all for your wonderful reviews and support! They're very helpful and encouraging! =) Thanks to all my followers as well. You all are lovely! Okay, then! Happy reading! **

Chapter Twenty: Ouch, Daddy?

Running… Adrenaline… Fear…. Pain…

"Almost there, come on!" called John.

"Hamish," Sherlock breathed upon feeling the little boy squirm in his arms.

"Daddy! Daddy 'ease!" Hamish's cries were muffled against the detective's coat.

"Come on, come on, get in!" John said anxiously as the trio reached the flat. He ushered Mary in, carefully on the lookout for more shots as Sherlock hurried into the flat, right on Mary's heels.

Adrenaline still coursing through his veins, Sherlock ran up the stairs, followed closely by John, who hurried over to Mary, checking for any injuries.

Sherlock took a shaky breath in as he felt Hamish squirm in his arms, his tiny cries filling the quiet flat.

"Hamish," he breathed in relief, pressing his face into the little boy's hair.

"Daddy! 'Ease, Daddy!" Hamish sobbed, crying into his father's shirt.

"Shh, Hamish it's okay… It's okay, Daddy's here."

Sniffing as he fought back frightened tears, Sherlock quickly knelt down on the floor, letting go of Hamish so he could check him over.

"Hamish, are you hurt?" he asked frantically, running his hands across the little boy's head and arms and stomach and legs.

"Oh thank god," he sighed, leaning forward to press his head against Hamish's tiny chest. "You're okay."

"Da'ey! What?" the little boy sobbed, wrapping his arms around the detective's head, and shoving his face into Sherlock's curly hair.

"Is he okay?" John asked worriedly, hurrying over towards his flat mates.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed in relief. "He's fine. Just shaken. But he's not hurt."

"Thank goodness," John sighed, giving the little boy a quick look-over. "I'll call Lestrade; get him over here as soon as possible to find out what the bloody hell is happening."

Sherlock gave a small nod of his head in response, still holding a crying Hamish close. He moved back and felt a small jab of pain in his abdomen, but shrugged it off, assuming it was the stitch in his side from running.

"Hamish?" he asked gently when the little boy clung tightly to his neck. "Hamish can you please look at me? Shhhh. It's okay, love. You're safe." Still kneeling down, Sherlock placed a comforting hand on Hamish's back. "Hamish, it's all okay now. Please," he plead quietly.

Sobs still shaking his tiny body, Hamish loosened his grip around the detective's neck and stared at Sherlock with tears streaming down his face.

"Daddy," he cried, face scrunching up as he started to cry again.

"No, no, no," Sherlock said quickly, brushing his thumb across the little boy's cheek. "It's all okay, Hamish. Please don't cry." He gave the little boy a reassuring smile, running one of his hands up and down Hamish's chubby arm.

The little boy sniffled, his eyes scanning the ground. "'Kay, Daddy," he mumbled sadly, pulling his gaze back up to meet Sherlock's.

"That's it. Very good job, love." Smiling reassuringly, the detective wrapped his arms around Hamish, and stood up, pulling the little boy close to his chest.

"Ah!" he gasped suddenly, feeling a sharp pain in his side. Pressing Hamish's face further into his coat, he shot John a pained look.

"Umm, Mary? Do you think you'd be able to take Hamish for a moment so John and I can go talk in the kitchen?"

"Sure," he she answered warily, taking a shaky breath.

"Hamish? I need you to go with Mary for a second, okay? Do you think you can do that for me?" he asked gently.

The little boy pulled away from Sherlock's coat, an alarmed look on his tear-stained face. "Daddy? What?" he asked worriedly, gripping onto the detective's shirt. His breath started to come in quick, short breaths.

"Shhh, Hamish. It's okay, it's okay," he whispered quietly, rubbing his hand up and down the little boy's back. "I just need to go and talk to John for a moment right there in the kitchen, see? I'm not leaving, I promise." Giving his son what he hoped was a reassuring look, he slowly brushed his fingers over the top of Hamish's cheek. "Think you can do that for me?"

His grip tightening around Sherlock, Hamish sniffled. "Daddy Hame help?" he asked in a tiny voice.

"Yes. Yes, Daddy needs your help. Think you can help me out?"

The little boy contemplated for a moment, releasing his grip and staring at Sherlock's neck. "Mmm… 'Kay, Daddy," he said reluctantly.

"Good man," John whispered in a comforting voice.

"Thank you, Hamish. I'll be right back."

"'Kay, Daddy." Sniffling again, Hamish threw his arms around Sherlock's neck, giving the detective a wet kiss on his neck before reluctantly stretching his arms out towards Mary.

Smiling sadly, Sherlock gave Hamish a quick kiss on his cheek, passed the tiny boy to Mary, and then hurried away into the kitchen. Not completely understanding, John quickly followed, giving Mary an apologetic yet grateful look.

Sherlock stood, smiling at Hamish, and waited until the two moved out of view as Mary went to sit on the couch. He turned to John, trying to ignore the burning pain in his side.

"John," he stated, quickly pulling of his coat.

"Sherlock, what's happen—" The doctor stopped speaking as Sherlock pulled off his suit jacket to reveal a large pool of blood staining his white shirt.

"God, Sherlock!" John cried, instantly switching into doctor mode. He rushed forward, shoving Sherlock down into a chair. "Take your shirt off; I need to see if you've been shot."

Wincing in pain, Sherlock quickly undid his shirt, tossing the blood-stained fabric towards the bin. He looked down at his abdomen to see a large spot of blood quickly forming around his waist.

"Agh!" he sighed in pain as John quickly pressed his fingers to the skin.

"Sorry!" the doctor apologized quickly. "Hold on." A determined look on face, John quickly ran around the kitchen, grabbing everything he might need and then hurried back to Sherlock, who was waiting patiently in the chair.

"Okay. Here we go." Placing all of the items he had gathered on the ground, John knelt down, grabbing a cloth he had wet down with cool water. "This is going to sting a little," he informed Sherlock.

"Fine." The detective waited calmly as John began to clean away the blood, making the damage appear muss less substantial. A small hiss escaped the detective's lips as John rubbed the rough cloth over the wound, making it twinge with pain.

"Sorry," John murmured quietly, carefully cleaning away the last of the blood. He stared at the gash on Sherlock's waist and sighed in relief. "It just grazed you," he said, smiling up at his flat mate. "Nothing too serious… The cut is rather deep, but it's nothing a little bit of bandaging won't fix up." He gently tapped Sherlock on the knee, and stood up, going over to the sink to wash the blood-covered towel.

"Daddy 'kay?" came Hamish's small voice from the other room. Sherlock smiled to himself, before calling back. "Yes, Hamish. I'm fine. Thank you. I should be out in just a few moments."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy. Soon?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, Hamish. Very soon." He grinned as he heard Hamish mutter something unintelligible to himself.

"He's quite worried about you," John chuckled, coming back over to Sherlock, a bottle of rubbing alcohol in his hands.

"Mmm," the detective murmured, staring warily at the bottle in John's hand.

"I know, I know. But we need to make sure it doesn't get infected. Better this than having to go to hospital, hmm?" he asked, kneeling back down on the ground.

"Ugh. Please, John," he said with an eye roll. "Just—just get it over with." Frowning slightly, Sherlock shifted in his chair, stretching his torso towards John in preparation.

"Don't be such a child," John chuckled, pouring some of the alcohol onto a clean cloth. "Ready?"

"Mmm."

With expert fingers, John tenderly pressed the cloth to the rather large cut on Sherlock's abdomen.

The detective inhaled sharply, giving John an icy glare as he saw the doctor chuckle to himself. "You know, you could be enjoying this a little less, Jo—"

"John! NO! What doing at Daddy?!"

Sherlock and John both turned towards the doorway to see an absolutely petrified Hamish staring at the bleeding wound on his father's side.

"No, no, no, no, Hamish, listen to me," Sherlock began calmly, trying to stand up off the chair.

"No, Sherlock," John tried, but his friend was already hurrying towards Hamish.

"I'm so sorry!" Mary called, quickly running up behind the little boy. "He just sort of—"

"Daddy!" Hamish cried, running forward as fast as his chubby legs would allow. He desperately wrapped his arms around Sherlock's leg, clinging to the fabric and attempting to scramble upwards into his father's arms.

"Shh, Hamish. It's okay," the detective said gently, lifting the little boy into his arms. He tried to turn Hamish's head away from the cut on his side, not wanting to upset the little boy even more. Mary quickly hurried out of the kitchen, clearly still shaken.

"No, Daddy," the little boy said firmly, fighting against Sherlock's hands. His eyes fell upon the small gash across his father's middle, which had now started to bleed again.

"Daddy!" the little boy gasped, staring at his father's skin. Eyes quickly filling with tears, he looked back at Sherlock, his breath already becoming quick and uneven.

"Hamish, look at me," Sherlock said gently, sitting back down in the chair. He quickly brushed his fingertips across Hamish's cheek, wanting to console the tiny boy. "Hamish, I'm okay. Really. Daddy's not hurt. John is just helping me to fix an ouch," he continued quietly, giving his son a sad smile as a tear quickly slid free from Hamish's eyes. "It's okay," he murmured once more, leaning forward. Tenderly, he kissed Hamish's cheek, clearing away the tear with his lips.

The little boy closed his eyes, causing more tears to slide free, and gently pressed one of his hands to Sherlock's cheekbone.

"Bu—bu," he sniffled as the detective leaned back. "Bu' John ouch Daddy," he cried, a new wave of sadness washing over him. He began to sob and pressed himself forward, snuffling into Sherlock's neck as he cried.

Hoping to comfort his son, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Hamish, enveloping him in a safe embrace.

"Hamish," he began gently. "John wasn't hurting me; he's helping to make the ouch go away, see?" Sherlock slowly rubbed his hand up and down against Hamish's back, frowning as the little boy sobbed against him.

"Please don't cry," he murmured sadly, pressing his nose into Hamish's silky hair.

The little boy sniffled, placing both of his hands against Sherlock's collarbone as he pulled away from the detective, face stained with tears.

"So… So John no ouch Daddy?" he sniffled quietly, staring with wide eyes at his father. "John 'ix Daddy?"

"Yes," breathed Sherlock. "John's fixing Daddy's ouch. See? Everything's okay." He gave Hamish a reassuring smile, brushing his thumb across the little boy's cheek to wipe away the tears. "Please don't cry…" He smiled again, letting his hand remain on the side of Hamish's head.

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy said quietly, pressing one of his chubby hands to Sherlock's lips as he leaned into the detective's touch. "Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock murmured against his son's fingers.

"Hame help Daddy ouch?"

Sherlock smiled warmly, glancing at John.

"I would be delighted to have your help, Hamish." The little boy smiled half-heartedly, his fingers curling against Sherlock's skin.

"'Kay, Daddy," he said quietly. "What do? Help John at ouch?"

"Well," the doctor started quietly. "I'm not sure there's a whole lot you can help _me_ with, but," he paused and leaned in close to Hamish's ear, whispering loudly. "I think Daddy could use some help being brave, hmm?" The doctor grinned as he saw the corner of Hamish's mouth turn upward in a small smile.

"What do, John?" the little boy asked earnestly.

"Well," the doctor said, leaning back. "What I'm about to do might sting a little so how about you let Daddy hold your hand while I patch him up?"

"Oh," the little boy said, suddenly very serious. "'Kay, John." He turned to Sherlock, completely unaware that the detective had heard the entire conversation.

"John say Hame 'old Daddy hand," the little boy said sweetly, giving Sherlock a comforting smile. "So no ouch."

"Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock said earnestly, smiling at the little boy in his lap.

"'Es, Daddy. Here. Hame hand." Keeping one of his chubby hands pressed against his father's collarbone, Hamish reached down and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's thumb. "'Old, Daddy," he said expectantly.

"Of course. Sorry." Smiling at his son, Sherlock closed his hand, wrapping his slender fingers around Hamish's chubby hand.

"'Kay, Daddy?" he asked worriedly, noticing how John was dumping more liquid onto the cloth. He gave Sherlock a fearful look, having noticed how earlier the cloth with the liquid had caused his father pain.

"It's okay, Hamish," Sherlock murmured softly, giving Hamish's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"'Kay, Daddy… 'Eady?"

The detective smiled. "I'm ready if you are."

"'Es. 'Kay, John. Daddy 'eady."

The doctor chuckled. "Good. Okay, here we go."

Hamish watched with wide, fearful eyes as John moved the cloth closer and closer to Sherlock's skin.

"No, Daddy!" he whimpered, turning around in the detective's lap. Squeezing his father's thumb with all of his might, Hamish pressed his face into Sherlock's jaw and clenched his eyes shut.

Both John and Sherlock chuckled to themselves. The detective winced slightly as John pressed the wet cloth to his skin, but he continued to smile down at Hamish.

"Hamish," he chuckled, squeezing the little boy's hand. "It's all right. Look. John's all done." Gently, Sherlock placed his free hand to the back of Hamish's head and coaxed the little boy away from his jaw, hoping he would see that all was fine.

Cautiously, Hamish opened his eyes. "Oh," he sighed in relief upon seeing his father's skin, clear of all blood and now almost properly bandaged.

"There," John said, giving a small nod of his head and smiling happily at his work as he taped the last bit of gauze to Sherlock's skin.

"All done, Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, gazing at the detective with worried eyes.

Sherlock smiled, running his fingertips up and down Hamish's back. "Yes, Hamish. It's all done. No more ouch. And thank you very much for all of your help." The detective gave the little boy a quick wink, brushing his finger across his son's chin. He leaned in, whispering in Hamish's ear. "I'm not sure I could have done it without you."

Hamish grinned at Sherlock, covering his mouth as he giggled.

"But don't tell John. We can't have him feeling left out, now can we?" The detective smiled against Hamish's hair as he felt the little boy laughing in his lap.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered loudly, leaning up to wrap his chubby arms around his father's neck, pulling the detective into a tight hug.

"Hame g'ad Daddy 'etter. Ta, John. Make Daddy 'etter."

John chuckled to himself as he quickly discarded Sherlock's bloodied shirt, knowing it would upset Hamish if he saw it. "You're very welcome, Hamish," he said, smiling at the little boy. "I'm happy that you're glad Daddy's better."

"Thank you, John," Sherlock said, giving the doctor a warm smile as he stood up, pulling Hamish into his arms.

"Daddy?" the little boy asked quietly, talking into Sherlock's jaw as he kept his arms wrapped around the detective's neck.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock asked gently, gazing down at Hamish.

"Umm… Hame kiss ouch?" Hamish asked quietly, peering up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

The detective paused to gaze at his son, a small smile playing on his lips.

"So make 'etter," Hamish added quickly, worried that his father was laughing at his proposition.

"That would be lovely," Sherlock said quietly, giving Hamish a reassuring smile. "Here." Moving carefully the detective slowly squatted down and placed Hamish on the ground, turning his body so as to give the little boy easier access.

A sweet smile on his face, Hamish placed both of his hands on either side of his father's bandage. Moving slowly, he leaned forward and pressed an incredibly light kiss Sherlock's waist. His fingers curled gently against the detective's skin as he pulled away, gazing happily at his father.

"Daddy 'etter now John an' Hame help."

The detective laughed, pulling his son into a tight hug. "Mmm! You're just wonderful, Hamish," he said, pressing a kiss to Hamish's auburn curls. "Yes. I am much better now that both you and John have helped. Thank you very much." He placed his hand to the back of the little boy's curls, taking a deep breath. "I love you very much."

"'Ove, Daddy," Hamish whispered into his father's chest. He took a deep breath, resting his head against the detective's skin.

The adrenaline leaving his tiny body, and now wrapped in the comforting embrace of his father, Hamish leaned forward, resting his weight against Sherlock's chest.

"Daddy," he said quietly, tapping a chubby finger against the detective's shoulder. "Tired, Daddy… 'Eep?" He yawned widely, pressing his face into Sherlock's bare skin.

"Of course," the detective murmured, pulling Hamish's sleepy form into his arms as he stood up. He began to gently sway back and forth, giving John a quick smile as he left the kitchen to tend to Mary.

"You've had a big day," he continued softly, whispering against Hamish's hair as he continued to sway back and forth. "I'm sorry about… All of it… I'll find out what happened, I promise. But for now, just sleep… You've earned it."

Hamish sighed quietly, soothed by the deep, rumbling voice of his father and leaned forward, his head gently bumping against Sherlock's collarbone.

"You were very brave today. And I am very proud of you."

"Mmm," Hamish hummed, his eyes fluttering shut as Sherlock began to rub soothing circles on his back.

Mumbling tiredly to himself, Hamish snuggled deeper into Sherlock's hold, shifting slightly as he turned his head, pressing his cheek against the detective's neck. Fingers curling against his father's skin, Hamish took a deep breath and quickly slipped away into sleep.

Gazing lovingly at his son, Sherlock slowly meandered out of the kitchen.

"Hey, Sherlock," John said, turning away from where he had been kneeling in front of Mary. He paused upon seeing the sleeping Hamish in his flat mate's arms. "Oh! Sorry." He quickly dropped his voice to a whisper. "Look, Mary's pretty shaken up. I'm going to take her home and stay with her tonight. Lestrade should be on his way soon, so when he gets here tell him what happened and see if he can't get to the bottom of what's going on." John sighed deeply, a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he gazed at Hamish, who had started mumbling to himself in his sleep.

"All right," Sherlock answered quietly, absentmindedly rubbing his hand up and down Hamish's back. "We should be allright here. I'll keep an eye out and talk to Lestrade when he gets here."

"Thanks," John breathed, giving his friend a thankful smile. "I should be back early tomorrow." He turned around, helping Mary up off the couch. "See you," he said, hurrying out the flat.

Smiling after John, Sherlock took a deep breath, and closed his eyes, feeling the gentle rise and fall of Hamish's breath against his chest.

"Ohh," he sighed, slowly meandering into his room.

Sherlock slid onto the bed and gently moved Hamish downwards on his chest, hoping he had not jostled the little boy.

Trying to clear his head, and push away the mild sense of panic he still felt coursing through his veins, Sherlock closed his eyes, and sunk deeper into the bed, squeezing his eyes shut.

"We're okay," he murmured out loud, rubbing his thumb up and down against Hamish's back.

Smiling to himself as he felt Hamish sigh against his skin, Sherlock closed his eyes, soothed by the soft light streaming in through his window and the feel of Hamish sleeping against his chest.


	21. Chapter Twenty-One: Stars

**Hey! I just reached 100 followers! Wow thank you so much, guys! You really are so lovely! A huge thanks to everyone who has reviewed and favorited and followed! It's so wonderful! So thank you to you all! (Also everyone should be aware that this chapter has not been proofread yet, so please excuse the mistakes! I will fix them as soon as possible!) But I just wanted to give a big shout out to all of you guys! Just so wonderful! =) Well I hope you all have a great rest of your weekend! Enjoy! **

Chapter Twenty-One: Stars

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of someone bustling up the stairs. Moving slowly, he rolled to the side and carefully placed Hamish on the bed. Smiling sweetly at small boy, the detective quickly slipped out of his room, shutting the door behind him.

"Lestrade, there was-"

"I know. John already called and told me."

"Oh... Good. Well, have you found anything?"

"Well... Sort of but—" he began, upon seeing the detective tense up. "I can't really tell you yet what we've found."

Sherlock froze. He could already feel his blood begin to boil. "What do you mean you can't tell me? We were shot at, my son was threatened—could even have been killed and you just _can't_ tell me?" the detective hissed. He hurried over to Lestrade, giving him an icy glare.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock!" the DI answered hastily, throwing his arms up in surrender. "But we just need to... Check some things out first." He gave the detective an apologetic smile.

Sherlock stopped, eyes narrowing as they quickly raked up and down the Inspector, analyzing him. His head slowly pulled back as he understood. He straightened up, interlocking both of his hands behind his back.

"What's his name?" he asked, suddenly very calm, as he stared at the DI with an expectant gaze.

"What? How—"

"You clearly have the shooter in custody and do not wish me to speak to him. What is his name and when will I be allowed to speak with him?"

"Now hold on," Lestrade began, very uncomfortable by how calm Sherlock was being. "You know I can't tell you his name and at this point, I'm not sure I'm going to allow you talk to him. I mean—I do kind of need him alive to press charges."

Sherlock chuckled darkly, giving the Inspector a sly half-smile. "Okay... Very well... I trust you'll inform me of any new information you discover about him, though," he stated, not even bothering to make it a question.

"Umm... Sure. Right! Of course I will... How's Hame doing? Is he okay?"

"He's fine, luckily. Shaken by the whole ordeal, but physically... Unharmed."

"Well that's good, isn't it?I'm glad to hear he's okay. John mentioned you actually got shot?"

"No, no. Just grazed," Sherlock said nonchalantly, now slightly embarrassed.

"Right," Lestrade said slowly and with a sly smile. "Well then, I'd best be off." Suddenly, and now very serious, the Inspector leaned forward towards his friend. "Don't worry. I'll make sure he gets put away... For good." He gave Sherlock a reassuring smile and a quick clap on the shoulder. "Be sure to tell Hame I said hi. Oh! And don't worry; I'll find a way to let you talk to him... I know you really want to. And technically speaking, you do have a right to see him." He gave Sherlock another warm smile upon seeing the detective tense ever so slightly at his words. "Besides!" he added cheerfully. "If I don't allow you to see him, I know you'll find a less... Let's say a less "orthodox" way of getting what you want, right?"

Sherlock managed a small smile, the corners of his lips twitching upward, as he knew the Inspector was correct. "Thank you, Lestrade," he said sincerely, truly grateful for the Inspector and all of his help. "Text me as soon as you learn anything," he added.

"'Course. See you later." With one last quick smile, the DI turned around and hurried down the stairs and out of the flat.

As soon as he knew Lestrade had left, Sherlock hurried over to the window and looked out, staring down at the many police cars in front of the flat. His eyes quickly scanned the scene, desperately hoping to get a glimpse of the man who had shot at his family.

He felt his heart stop as he saw Lestrade ushering a man, whose hands were handcuffed behind his back, into a squad car. Forcing himself to think straight, Sherlock quickly raked his gaze up and down the man, looking for any clues he might be able to find about the man.

His mind began to quickly sort through all of the details he could see about the man: _Balding; short in stature; very self-conscious; wearing an old, very worn-out suit; means he recently lost job; lost custody of his children approximately eleven months ago; heavy drinker; has no— _

Sherlock's thoughts were cut off as Lestrade quickly pushed the man into the car and out of sight. He couldn't help but smile as he noticed the amount of force the Inspector used, understanding that fierce sense of protection.

Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Sherlock backed away from the window as he heard the squad cars come to life, sirens blaring.

"Right," he muttered to himself, thoughts racing with possibilities. His mind was quickly separating all of the details he had noticed about the man, trying to form a coherent picture, a story, anything, about the man.

"No... No... Possibly," he murmured, sorting through scenarios as he slowly paced back and forth around the flat, hands steepled against his lips. He was pulled from his thinking by a small call from his room.

"Daddy?"

"I'm just here, Hamish," Sherlock called gently. Fighting his instincts, he pushed aside all of his thoughts and speculations and hurried into his room.

* * *

Throughout the rest of the day, Sherlock often found himself to be staring wistfully at Hamish. The detective found that he was craving the comfort of his son's touch much more than usual; he kept gently brushing his fingers across the little boy's hands, his face, his curly hair, all in an effort to reassure himself that his son was safe. The shooting had jolted him into the realization that just as quickly as Hamish had entered his life, he could be taken out of it...

Sherlock was sitting on the ground, mulling over his thoughts as Hamish was sat next to him, playing with some toy blocks. Feeling that strange sense of panic coursing through him again, the detective leaned forward and gently brushed the tips of fingers across his son's cheek. Suddenly, with that little touch, the feeling of panic was replaced by a reassuring wave of relief. He took a deep breath and began to gently twirl a lock of Hamish's auburn curls between his fingers. Lips turning upward ever so slightly, he began to stare at the little once again.

Blocks quickly forgotten upon feeling his father playing with his hair, Hamish quickly turned towards Sherlock, brows pulled together in confusion. His features softened, to be replaced by a small smile as he noticed the detective staring at him again.

"Daddy?" he whispered quietly, crawling over and into his father's lap.

"Hmm? Oh! I was doing it again, wasn't I?" Sherlock asked gently, suddenly pulled out of his trance as he felt Hamish crawl over his legs. He smiled fondly, scooping the little boy into his arms.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish giggled happily, holding tightly to Sherlock. Smiling widely, the little boy leaned forward, resting his head against the detective's collarbone.

"Sorry," Sherlock chuckled, hugging the little boy close.

"What, Daddy?" Hamish asked, voice slightly muffled, as he spoke against Sherlock's skin.

"Ohh," the detective sighed, standing up off the ground. He started to slowly pace around the flat, holding Hamish close to his chest. "Do you mean why do I keep staring at you?" He playfully tickled Hamish's stomach.

"'Es, Daddy!" the little boy giggled happily, pulling his face away from the detective's collar.

"Well... I suppose it's... Just because I love you so much... And I like to know that you're safe," he murmured quietly, pushing some of Hamish's unruly curls away from his forehead.

"Oh," the little boy responded quietly, not quite understanding. "'Kay, Daddy. 'Ove!" Hoping to reassure his father in some way, Hamish reached forward and wrapped his arms around the detective, pulling him into a tight hug.

"Oh! Well thank you, Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, wrapping his arms around the small boy. "I love you, too." Smiling lovingly, he pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's temple. "Come on, then. Let's go watch some quick telly before bed, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish replied cheerily, keeping his arms wrapped around Sherlock's neck.

* * *

Hamish fell asleep in Sherlock's lap, his limp body draped across the detective's legs. Smiling fondly at his son, Sherlock gently pulled the little boy into his arms and carried him into his room.

Gingerly, so as not to wake him, Sherlock slowly lowered his son's sleeping form into the cot, and quickly tugged off his shirt and pants. He gently draped Hamish's favorite blanket over his body. "There you go. Sleep well," he whispered. Gazing fondly at his son, Sherlock bent down and pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's forehead, feeling that same sense of relief wash over him again.

Smiling to himself, the detective quickly crawled into bed, closing his eyes as he listened to his son's gentle breathing.

* * *

At some point during the night, Sherlock had awoken, that familiar feeling of panic gripping his body. He quickly leaned over the side of his bed and glanced into the cot, just to check and make sure Hamish was fast asleep.

After seeing his son sleeping soundly, the detective moved back and tried to fall asleep. But, after having no success, Sherlock once again leaned over the side of the bed, and slowly lifted Hamish out of the cot. He pulled the little boy close to his chest and wrapped his arms around his son's small form, sighing quietly in relief.

"I've got you..."

* * *

The detective lay awake in bed, Hamish snuggled tightly against his chest. He listened contently to the sound of the little boy's deep breathing, smiling ever so slightly at the feel of his son's breath against his skin.

His mind began to wander once again to the few seconds he had seen the shooter, mentally pouring over any and all details he may have missed. His thoughts were interrupted, though, as he felt Hamish's body tense in his arms. Brows pulled together in confusion, Sherlock loosened his grip around the small boy's body, worried he'd been holding him too tightly.

"Mmm, no..." Hamish mumbled, his voice sounding small and frightened.

"Hamish?" Sherlock asked, now very worried. He hurriedly pulled Hamish back to his chest and sat up in the bed. Already beginning to murmur soothing words, the detective quickly placed his hand on the back of the little boy's head and began to gently rock back and forth, hoping to comfort his distressed son.

"Hamish... Shh, it's okay," he whispered as he felt the little boy grab a fistful of his shirt in his tiny hands.

"No... No! Da'ey!" Hamish sobbed, pressing his face into Sherlock's chest, trying to escape his nightmare.

"No, no, no, Hamish. Wake up, love. Please! It's okay, I'm here," the detective murmured hurriedly, desperately trying to wake the little boy and pull him away from his night terror. He brushed his fingertips across Hamish's cheek, whispering in his ear.

With a loud gasp, Hamish jolted awake, his breath quick and uneven. He frantically searched around the room, his eyes darting back and forth as he looked around for Sherlock.

"Hamish, shh... Look at me, I'm right here. It's okay, love," Sherlock soothed, trying to get the little boy to look at him.

Upon hearing his father speak, Hamish quickly turned back towards the noise, eyes widening as he saw the detective.

"Daddy," he sighed in relief. Closing his eyes, Hamish quickly leaned forward and pressed his face into Sherlock's shirt, flailing his arms forward in an effort to wrap them around his father's neck, though one ended up resting against the detective's collarbone, the other pressing tightly against his lips. "Daddy," he whispered again, squeezing his eyes together in an effort to chase away the memories of the nightmare.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, talking against Hamish's fingers. He quickly pulled the little boy closer and began to rub his hand up and down his bare back. Knowing how it always seemed to calm him down, the detective started to twirl some of Hamish's silky hair between his fingers. "It's okay now... I'm here..."

Smiling gladly as he felt his son relax in his arms, Sherlock bent down, and pressed his cheek to the top of Hamish's head, taking a deep breath.

"Da'ey," the little boy sniffled sadly, turning his head back and forth against his father's chest.

"I know," Sherlock murmured. "I'm sorry... Do you want to tell me about it?"

"Daddy-Da-Daddy ouch," Hamish whispered, snuffing quietly against Sherlock's shirt. "Bad." Slowly, the tiny boy pulled away, sniffling loudly as he did so. "Bad, Daddy," he said quietly, gazing up at the detective with watery eyes.

"Bad..." Sherlock echoed, pulling his head away so he could look at Hamish. Smiling sadly, he began to wipe away his son's tears, pausing to let his thumb rest on top of Hamish's cheek. Thinking, the detective stared at his son with a tender gaze, and began to rub his thumb back and forth across his cheek once again.

"I want to show you something," he whispered eventually, brushing some of Hamish's curls off of his forehead. "Come here." Groaning softly, he pulled Hamish into his arms.

"What, Da'ey?" the little boy asked quietly, staring up at Sherlock with wide, tired eyes. With a wide yawn, he fell forward, his head gently bumping against the detective's collarbone.

"Shh... It's okay." Sherlock murmured quietly, pausing to gaze down at Hamish, who was tiredly snuggling against his neck. He smiled, and pressed a light kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Nothing," he whispered quietly, running the tips of his fingers up and down his back.

Humming quietly, Sherlock wandered out of his room, gently bouncing Hamish in his arms as he lightly rubbed his fingertips up and down the little boy's bare back. "Okay," he sighed quietly, walking over to the window.

"Hamish?" he asked gently, flattening his hand over his son's back.

"Hmm? 'Es Da'ey?" Wanting to listen to his father, Hamish tiredly opened his eyes and gazed up at the detective from where he was resting.

Smiling, Sherlock leaned forward, pressing his shoulder against the window. "Here. Look out."

Blinking slowly, with eyebrows pulled together in confusion, Hamish slowly leaned forward in Sherlock's arms and gazed out of the window, staring up at the sky. His eyes widened, and his mouth fell open slightly as he stared up at the vast night sky.

"Wow, Daddy," he sighed in amazement, absentmindedly pressing his chubby fingers against the detective's cheek as he leaned even further towards the glass.

Grinning at his son's wonder, Sherlock began to gently sway back and forth, and turned his attention to the sky. "Do you know what those are, Hamish?" he asked gently.

Eyes bright with wonder and amazement, the little boy pulled his attention away from the window to stare, wide-eyed at Sherlock. "No, Daddy... What?"

"Those are called stars," Sherlock murmured quietly, rubbing his hand up and down Hamish's back. "There's billions and billions of them out there. They're beautiful, aren't they?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish agreed in wonder, nodding his head up and down. "Bat'ful..." Sighing deeply in sheer amazement, the little boy leaned back in Sherlock's arms, resting his head against the detective's shoulder. He continued to stare out of the window, mouth hanging open. Snuggling into his father's hold, the little boy began to whisper to himself, absentmindedly wrapping his chubby hand around one of Sherlock's fingers.

Sherlock smiled lovingly, delicately running his thumb across Hamish's small hand. He took notice of the way the little boy's eyelids had started to flutter open and closed.

"You know," he murmured slowly, gazing at Hamish as he spoke. "Someone once told me a secret about the stars... Would you like to hear?"

Fighting to keep his eyes open, Hamish turned in Sherlock's arms and leaned against the detective's chest, anxious to hear what his father's had to say. "'Es, Daddy," he whispered quietly, gazing up at the detective from where he was resting. Getting comfortable, he tiredly wrapped one of his chubby arms around Sherlock's neck. "Mmm," he sighed contently, gently tracing the gap at the base of his father's neck with his other hand.

"Well," Sherlock began quietly, smiling at the familiar sensation of Hamish's chubby fingers tracing his neck. He continued, absentmindedly twirling a lock of the little boy's hair between his fingers. "Someone once told me that if you ever have a nightmare, when you wake up, you should make a wish. Now the stars, they hear those wishes. And do you know what happens when they hear a child make a wish?"

"What, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, staring expectantly at Sherlock.

"Well when the stars hear a child's wish, a brand new star is formed. And that star, that one twinkling, shining star, watches over that child... Protects them... Grants their wishes... And chases away their nightmares."

"'Eally, Daddy?" Hamish asked in awe, his gaze slowly drifting out the window.

"Yes... Really, really. So from now on, if you ever have a nightmare again, all you'll need to do is make a wish to your star... Would you like to make a wish now?" he murmured, staring fondly at Hamish, who was gazing, wide-eyed at the stars.

"'Es 'ease, Daddy," Hamish whispered, nodding his head against Sherlock's shirt.

"Good. Now... Close your eyes... And when you're ready, make a wish..."

Sherlock watched, smiling to himself as Hamish shut his eyes, whispering to himself. Feeling that oh-so-familiar warmth flooding his chest, the detective leaned down and pressed his lips to the top of Hamish's head just as the little boy finished making his wish.

"Done?" the detective murmured happily, quickly brushing his thumb across Hamish's cheek.

"'Es, Daddy. Hame Star?" he asked hopefully.

Sherlock chuckled, pulling his son into a tight hug as he returned to his room. "Yes, Hamish. Now you have your own star; a Hamish Star."

"Ohh," the little boy sighed happily, leaning forward. All traces of the nightmare now forgotten, Hamish pressed his small form against Sherlock's chest, yawning widely as the detective climbed into bed.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock whispered, situating the little boy on his chest.

"Umm... Daddy star?" Fighting tiredness, Hamish stared up at his father, waiting to hear his answer.

"Do I have a star?" He smiled as Hamish nodded against his chest. "Well... If you want me to?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. Wish." With a tired smile, Hamish scooted himself forward until he was practically sitting on the detective's face. Tenderly, the little boy pressed both of his hands over Sherlock's eyes. "Wish Daddy," he whispered, chubby fingers curling against his father's skin.

"Okay," Sherlock murmured, lips twitching upward into a loving smile as he felt Hamish's fingernails scratch against his skin. "I'll make a wish..." Hamish smiled happily as he heard Sherlock whispering in the dark. He moved one of his small hands, splaying the chubby fingers across his father's lips, giggling at the feel of Sherlock speaking against his palm.

"Good Daddy," he whispered, moving his hands until they were both resting on either side of the detective's face. "No bad..." He smiled reassuringly at Sherlock, curling and uncurling his chubby fingers against the detective's sharp cheekbones.

The detective grinned fondly, and tenderly began to trace his finger over Hamish's eyebrow. "You're right... No more nightmares for either of us..."

"Mmm," Hamish hummed in agreement. He leaned forward and gently pressed a tiny kiss to the corner of Sherlock's lips. Sighing contently, he leaned down, snuggling tiredly against the detective's neck.

"Mmm... Nigh' Daddy an' Hame Star. Nigh' night Daddy... 'Ove," he whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open long enough to say goodnight to his father.

"Good night, Hamish... I love you, too. Sleep well, love." Smiling lovingly, Sherlock leaned down and pressed an incredibly tender kiss to his son's forehead. "No more nightmares tonight..."

"Mmm..." And with a quiet sigh, Hamish quickly fell asleep, resting soundly on his father's chest.

Sherlock smiled to himself, closing his eyes as he waited for sleep to come, listening to the steady breaths of his son. He thought about the story he'd just told his son... And knew that if it had been any other person, he would have instantly pointed out all of the inconsistencies and impossibilities with the idea of a wish becoming a star. But, knowing somehow that what he'd just done would help chase away his son's nightmares and fears... For once it didn't matter.


	22. Chapter Twenty-Two: A Shooter

**Hey guys! Okay so just a warning, this has not been proofread yet, so there are probably going to be many mistakes! Just please be aware and excuse; I will fix them as soon as possible. =) Thanks! Also, this one may or may not be changing a lot, so if you're interested, check back in to see if there have been changes or not. You guys are absolutely wonderful! Thanks so much! See you guys! =)**

Chapter Twenty-Two: A Shooter

Sherlock was awoken by the loud, unwelcome ringing of his mobile ringing in his ear. Hoping the shrill noise would not wake Hamish, the detective hurriedly found his phone and pushed it to his ear.

"What?" he asked groggily, not bothering with social graces.

"Sherlock?" came the serious voice of Lestrade. Sherlock felt his heart skip a beat in his chest. Instantly alert, he rolled over, gently letting Hamish slide off his chest.

"Mmm," the little boy grunted in his sleep. Momentarily, jostled, Hamish's face scrunched up in discomfort. Hoping to regain his comfortable position, Hamish tucked his arms and legs inward, curling up against Sherlock's side.

Anxiously awaiting Lestrade's news, Sherlock moved upward ever so slightly, placing his free hand on Hamish's bare back.

"What have you found?" he asked, rubbing his thumb back and forth across Hamish's skin. He could hear Lestrade take a deep breath on the other end of the line.

"Well," he started and Sherlock could tell the Inspector was weary of the information he was about to convey. "It appears our bloke's name is Harold Schuester. He's forty-two years old, is divorced and has three kids, ages seven, ten, and fifteen. Two days ago, he lost custody of all of the kids, reason being, he's an avid drinker. I guess his wife felt uncomfortable leaving her kids with an alcoholic, one who has violent tendencies, or so it seems... Anyway! He lost all custody of the kids and that clearly just threw him over the edge." Lestrade paused, taking a deep breath.

"And?" Sherlock prompted, knuckles turning white as he gripped onto the phone. Sensing something was coming, he pulled Hamish closer to his side feeling fiercely protective of the little boy.

"_And_... It appears up until about four months ago, he was the manager of an orphanage. An orphanage that just happens to be the one Hamish was living at. Yeah, it seems a certain Mycroft Holmes had it shut down shortly after you adopted Hamish." Lestrade stopped, bracing himself for anything that may be coming from the other end of the line.

Sherlock paused, mulling over Lestrade's words. "I'll be right over," he said eventually. "And I'll bring John."

"Good. See you guys when you get here."

The detective took a deep breath and clicked the phone off. He glanced down at Hamish, who was sleeping soundly, snuggling against his side. Despite the anxiousness he was feeling, Sherlock smiled at the sight, and bent down to press a tender kiss to the top of Hamish's head.

Still smiling, he pulled away and leaned back against the headboard. He quickly dialed John's number and put the phone back to his ear.

"Sh'lock?" came the groggy voice of John.

"Yes. Listen, John, Lestrade just called and they have the shooter in custody and he wants us to come in to talk to him."

"Oh! Oh, right... Um... Okay." The sound of rustling could be heard and Sherlock guessed John was crawling out of Mary's bed.

"I plan on coming to pick you up as soon as Hamish wakes up. But, John—Um—There's something else."

There was a pause. "What is it?"

"The shooter? It appears he used to run the orphanage Hamish was living at." Sherlock couldn't help as his mouth twisted into a snarl.

"What?" John said quietly from the other end of the line. Though Hamish was not his child, John still shared a connection with the little boy and he felt anger start to burn in his veins. "I'll be ready when you get here," he said firmly.

Sherlock sensed the change in John's tone and gave a terse nod of his head. "Good. We should be over soon... John?"

"Yes?"

"Umm... Thank you. I appreciate it."

John smiled. "Of course."

Without needing to exchange any more words, both the detective and the doctor hung up at the same time, each having a mutual understanding of what was awaiting for that day.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock quickly tossed the phone to the other side of the bed and gazed down at Hamish. Smiling to himself, he gently patted the little boy's bottom.

"Hamish?" he whispered gently, pulling his son's small form into his arms.

"Mmm," Hamish groaned unhappily, frowning as he opened his eyes. "Daddy," he whined, leaning forward to press his face into Sherlock's collarbone.

"Morning," the detective chuckled, gently ruffling Hamish's wild curls.

"No, Daddy," the little boy mumbled in reply, rubbing his forehead against Sherlock's shirt.

Chuckling happily, the detective leaned down and pressed a quick kiss to Hamish's forehead. "Come on," he said cheerfully, wrapping his arms around the little boy as he slid off the bed. "Time to get dressed."

"No 'ease?" Hamish asked tiredly, peering up at his father from where he was resting.

Grinning fondly, Sherlock brushed his fingertips over the little boy's forehead, pushing some of Hamish's curls off his forehead.

"How about I go get dressed and you can keep sleeping, hmm?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish mumbled sleepily, nodding against Sherlock's neck.

"Excellent," the detective chuckled, turning back to the bed. Smiling fondly, Sherlock lowered Hamish's sleepy form onto the bed and gently pried his chubby fingers from around his collar. He pulled the duvet around his son's body.

"Hmm," he hummed, quickly brushing his thumb over the little boy's cheek before turning away from the bed to get dressed.

* * *

After having finished getting dressed in his signature suit and putting Hamish's bag together, Sherlock slowly crept back into his room.

"Hamish?" he whispered, gently pulling the covers away from Hamish's small body.

"Hmm?" the little boy murmured, opening his eyes to gaze at Sherlock. "Uppey tie?"

"Yes," Sherlock smiled. "Up time."

"Mmm. 'Kay, Daddy." With bleary eyes, Hamish lifted his arms up towards the detective, yawning widely as he waited to be picked up.

"Here we go." Keeping Hamish on his hip, Sherlock quickly moved around the room, grabbing some clothes as the little boy started to wake up. Clothes in hand, he set Hamish on the bed, and quickly changed his nappy. "Which one?" he asked, holding up two of Hamish's favorite shirts: a purple button up and a dark blue t-shirt with an orange dinosaur.

"Daddy's!" Hamish called happily, pointing at the purple button up.

Sherlock grinned. "I agree! Excellent choice." Practically beaming, the detective quickly pulled on the shirt, followed closely by a pair of trousers.

"Ohh," he groaned quietly as he placed Hamish on the ground. "You're getting so big! Soon you'll be as big as I am!" he exclaimed comically, squatting down to gently tickle the little boy's stomach with his fingertips.

"Daddy!" Hamish laughed, trying to shove his father's hands away. He fell forward, wrapping his chubby arms around the detective's neck.

"Come on then," Sherlock chuckled, retuning the hug. "We've got a big day ahead of us." After a quick kiss on the cheek, the detective straightened, and lowered his hand for Hamish. Once he felt his son's chubby hand safely in his own, Sherlock closed his slender fingers, wrapping them around Hamish's.

"Ready?" he asked, grinning lovingly as he saw the likeness between him and his son. He gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish said sweetly, giving a tiny squeeze back.

"Good."

* * *

After picking up John, the trio of flat mates were on their way to the Yard, with Hamish talking happily to John all the way.

Both Sherlock and the doctor exchanged several knowing glances during the cab ride, smiling fondly at the little boy settled between them.

* * *

"Unk Greg!" Hamish cried happily, releasing the hold he had around Sherlock's hand to toddle haphazardly towards the Inspector.

"Oh! Hey there little man!" Lestrade said happily, scooping the little boy up into his arms. "How are you doing, Hame?" he asked, giving Hamish a tight hug.

"Hame good!"

Lestrade chuckled, setting the small boy back on the ground. Grinning happily, Hamish hurried back over to Sherlock and John. He reached up, gently tugging on the detective's hand.

"Up, Daddy?" he asked hopefully.

"Of course." Smiling fondly, Sherlock lifted Hamish into his arms placing him onto his hip. Both he and John turned their attention to Lestrade.

"Umm, if you could please tell me where—"

"Hey, hey, hold on, hold on," Greg interrupted quickly, hurrying over towards the two friends. "I know. I know you're anxious to see him, but listen." He leaned in, dropping his voice to a whisper. "There's a man in my office—very nicely dressed and—uh—with an umbrella... He claims he knows you?"

The smile instantly leaving his face, Sherlock turned his attention towards Lestrade's office, frowning as he saw Mycroft happily twirling his umbrella back and forth around the air.

"Yes," he sighed unhappily. "That would be Mycroft, my brother."

"Wait—Your—"

"My! Daddy, Daddy, My!"

"Yes, yes I see. Here you go." Almost reluctantly, Sherlock placed Hamish, who was practically bouncing up and down in his arms, on the ground, allowing the little boy to run over to Mycroft. For some reason, though Sherlock couldn't possibly imagine why, Hamish had taken quite a liking to his brother, always enjoying the umbrella he carried with him and his funny-looking suits.

"Hello, Hamish," Mycroft exclaimed happily, leaning down to give Hamish a quick pat on the head while the little boy wrapped his arms around his leg.

"Please," Sherlock muttered, rolling his eyes.

"Sherlock," John warned, giving his flat mate a sideways smile.

"Yes, yes I know. Lestrade. Where is he?"

"Oh! Right! Umm... Just over here." With a quick smile, the Inspector hurried past the two men.

"Come along, Hamish!" Sherlock called, giving his son a quick smile.

"'Kay, Daddy!" Grinning widely, Hamish released the hold he had on Mycroft's leg and hurried over towards his father.

"'Es, Daddy?"

"Here. Can you go with John for a moment so I can speak to Uncle Mycroft?" Sherlock asked, bending down so he was eye-level with Hamish.

"Oh. 'Es Daddy. Come?"

"Of course. I'll be right behind." Upon seeing the small frown that was forming on the little boy's face, Sherlock quickly tickled the soft skin under Hamish's chin. "Promise."

"Mmm," the little boy giggled. "'Kay, Daddy." With the smile slowly returning to his face, Hamish hurried forward to John, who was holding his hand out for the little boy.

"Come on then, Hame," he said gently, leading Hamish in the direction Lestrade had gone.

A small smile playing in the corner of his lips, Sherlock watched Hamish toddle away with John as he waited for Mycroft.

"Why did you come?" the detective asked as he felt his brother walk up behind him.

"Please," Mycroft scoffed. "Despite what you _obviously_ seem to believe, I am rather fond of Hamish and John. So when I get news that my little brother, his son and closest friend have all been shot at... Well, needless to say, I do want to help in some way."

"Mmm... Fine. You want to help?" Sherlock asked tersely, turning back so he was facing his brother.

"In any way that I can," Mycroft answered, sticking his nose upward indignantly.

"Very well. Answer me one question..." Almost blushing at his own actions, Sherlock leaned forward, not wanting to admit how much he actually trusted his brother.

"Do you know... if he hurt Hamish?" he whispered, staring into Mycroft's eyes as he waited nervously for the answer, daring, if just for a moment, to bare his vulnerability.

Mycroft paused, seeing the serious look in his brother's eyes, and sensing how worried he actually was. "I don't know," he murmured truthfully, gazing back at Sherlock. "I'm sorry."

Backing away, the detective gave a quick nod of his head as he regained his composure. "Thank you." Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began to slowly make his way after Lestrade, Mycroft following closely behind.

Eventually, the two found John, who was now holding Hamish on his hip and Lestrade, all three of whom were waiting in a hallway right out side of a door.

"Daddy!" Hamish exclaimed happily upon seeing his father. He leaned in John's arms, stretching his hands out towards Sherlock.

"Oof! There you go," John groaned, passing Hamish to the detective.

"Hello," Sherlock chuckled, pulling the little boy into his arms.

"Mmm. Hi, Daddy!" Content to be back in his father's arms, Hamish started to talk to Sherlock, babbling happily and with mostly unintelligible words. The detective smiled as he felt Hamish start to play with a lock of his hair.

"Ready?" Lestrade asked, his hand already covering the doorknob.

"Yes," John replied, giving a firm nod of his head.

"Yes... Oh! Really?" Sherlock murmured in reply to his son's babbling, smiling as Hamish nodded earnestly, and continued to talk, completely oblivious to what was happening around him.

With Lestrade holding the door open, John, Sherlock and Mycroft all made their way into the room. Instantly the air seemed thicker, different, and far tenser, though it seemed to go unnoticed by Hamish as he continued to talk happily to Sherlock, gently twirling a lock of the detective's raven curls in between his chubby fingers.

Sherlock quickly glanced around the room. There were two windows, or panels, on opposites sides of the wall. One was black, due to the lights in the room next door being off. The panel on the right, however, was bright with an almost-yellow haze.

"That's him," Lestrade said, almost sounding disgusted as he gestured to the window.

Taking a deep breath, and subconsciously pulling Hamish closer, Sherlock quickly placed a light kiss to the top of the little boy's head before turning his attention to the panel. His eyes fell upon an incredibly untidy, greasy-looking man. Instantly, the detective recognized the details he'd noticed the night before.

Hungry for any new information, Sherlock's eyes quickly darted back and forth over the man's chubby form, analyzing all new details his eyes fell upon. Without even being in the room, he could clearly tell that the man was intoxicated. His balding head was greasy and glistening with sweat. His suit, which at one time had been quite nice, was now wrinkled, stained with sweat and alcohol. He was incredibly chubby, which only added to his unkempt appearance.

Sherlock's eyes fell upon his arms and hands, which were scarred, bruised and cut. It was clear he was a violent individual. It also become clear quite quickly that he had a sort of nervous tick; Sherlock noticed how he would drum three of his fingers against the table and then clench his hand into a fist before repeating the process over and over.

What upset Sherlock the most, though, was that it was clear that drinking was not a new thing for this man. It was obvious to him that he had been drinking long before the orphanage was ever shut down. Which would mean he was most likely drunk, or at least never fully sober) during the time Hamish had spent at the orphanage.

Sherlock could feel his skin crawl at the thought of this man having been with Hamish at one point during his young life. Without even looking around the room, he could tell Lestrade, John and Mycroft were all having identical thoughts, making the same observations he just had. Sherlock had no doubt their faces mimicked the disgusted expression he had on his own.

"What's this guy's name?" John asked quietly, though he continued to stare at the man sitting on the other side of the interrogation window rather than turn towards Lestrade.

"Howard. Howard Schuester."

"'An—" Hamish froze, his conversation suddenly coming to a halt as he heard the name Greg had just said. A deep frown forming on his face, and his eyebrows tugging together, Hamish turned his attention to what everyone else in the room seemed to be looking at.

Sherlock, who had felt the little boy freeze in his arms, turned his attention away from the window.

"Hamish?" he asked, upon seeing the almost confused look on his son's face.

Ignoring his father's question, turned his attention to the window. After several moments, his gaze finally fell upon what everyone had been looking at.

Sherlock could feel what was coming before it happened. He quickly placed his hand to the back of Hamish's head, pulling his gaze away from the window just as the little boy started to scream hysterically.

Heart pounding, Sherlock rushed out of the room, trying to hold Hamish close as the little boy continued to scream and sob.

"No! NO! 'Ease, Daddy! NO! Ouch! Hame ouch! 'Ease, 'ease, Daddy!" the little boy sobbed, flailing his arms around as he tried to grab ahold of Sherlock.

"No, Hamish! Shhh! Please, it's okay, it's okay! You're safe, I've got you. He's not going to hurt you, I promise... Please! It's okay, it's okay!" Sherlock whispered frantically, panic beginning to course through his veins. "I'm sorry, Hamish. I'm so sorry!"

Sherlock quickly hurried into Lestrade's office, taking no notice of the stares he received from the workers around him, and taking no notice as, John, Lestrade, and Mycroft all hurried in behind him, a mixture of fear, confusion and sadness in their expressions.

"Hamish. Hamish, please. Look at me," Sherlock said gently, trying to sound calmer than he felt. He quickly knelt down on the ground, and pressed Hamish close to chest.

"Daddy!" the little boy sobbed, pressing his small body as close to Sherlock as he could possibly get. Sobs shaking his body, Hamish wrapped his arms around the detective's neck, clearly terrified that he was going to be taken away from his father.

Wanting to give his son reassurance that he was safe and was not going to be taken away, Sherlock wrapped his arms around Hamish's shaking body, and began to gently rock back and forth and John, Lestrade and Mycroft watched on helplessly.

"Shhh, Hamish, please listen to me. You're safe... You're safe, I promise. I have you. I will not let him hurt you. Please—Just please don't cry. It's okay, shhh..." Keeping Hamish pressed close, the detective slowly rubbed his hand up and down the little boy's shaking back, hoping to console him in some way.

Sniffling violently, and with sobs still coursing through his tiny body, Hamish pulled away just enough so he could see Sherlock's face.

"N—no bye D—Daddy?" he cried, tears streaming down his face.

"No," Sherlock said firmly, feeling a constricting pain in his chest as he stared down at his son's tear-stained face. "I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here... See? I'm right here... It's okay. I've got you, I _promise. _I'm so sorry, Hamish..." he murmured, all of his thoughts running together into one. "Please... Shhhh..."

"H—Hame get ouch," Hamish cried, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder. He freed one of his hands from the detective's grasp and pointed to himself. Unable to see what the little boy was talking about, Sherlock quickly pulled back. He felt his breath stop as he saw that Hamish was pointing to his collarbone... His tiny finger was positioned just over the small scar.

"Hamish," Sherlock breathed, struggling to find his breath. "Did—Did that man give you that scar?"

Hamish sniffled loudly, before giving a sad nod of his head. "'Es, Daddy. Hame get ouch," he cried, more tears trickling down his face.

Sherlock felt a wave of emotions crash over him at once. Immense guilt, incredible sadness, and an uncontrollable hatred burning his stomach. He thought of how he'd once wanted to hurt the person who had given Hamish his scar. And now here was—sitting no less than fifty yards away from him.

Feeling anger boiling through his veins, Sherlock's eyes quickly flicked to Mycroft. Without a word being shared between the two, each knew what the other wanted. With a firm nod of his head, lips turned up into an angry snarl, Mycroft quickly hurried out of the office and disappeared down the hallway.

Pushing aside all else, Sherlock focused his attention on Hamish. He stood up, pulling the little boy into his arms.

"Shh," he soothed. "I'm here... It's okay now... You're safe. I'm here... Shh..." He began to gently sway back and forth, running his hand up and down Hamish's back. "Please... It's all okay. I'm right here, and I promise I'm not going anywhere. You're safe."

Eventually, after realizing that he was safe and was not going to be taken away from Sherlock, Hamish calmed down considerably, though he refused to let go of his father. A small fistful of the detective's shirt was still clutched tightly in his hand.

"Shhh," the detective continued to whisper, swaying back and forth. He had started to press tender kisses to Hamish's hair and cheeks in a sign of reassurance. "It's okay," he murmured, pressing his lips to his son's cheek.

"Daddy," the little boy whispered sadly, his grip around the detective tightening.

"I'm here, Hamish... I'm here..."

"All done," came the voice of Mycroft. Sherlock as well as Lestrade and John all turned to see the detective's brother coming back into the office, a grim look on his face. "Don't worry. I've had him... Taken care of."

"Good. I'll come later. Thank you," Sherlock thanked, feeling another surge of anger burn in his stomach. He pushed it away, though, as he felt Hamish bury his face in his neck.

"Home, Daddy?" he asked sadly, sniffling as he gazed up at Sherlock from where he was resting.

"Of course," the detective replied gently, brushing some of the little boy's curls off of his face. "Let's go home."

* * *

During the car ride home, John had decided he would spend a few more hours at Mary's, allowing Sherlock and Hamish to have some time alone.

"Ni-bye, John," Hamish said quietly, giving the doctor a sad wave as he stepped out of the car.

"Bye, bye Hamish," John replied gently, leaning back in the cab to give the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll see you later, okay?"

"'Kay..."

"Thank you, John." Sherlock gave his friend a grateful smile. "I really appreciate it."

The doctor simply replied with a reassuring smile before silently slipping away into Mary's flat.

Hamish spent the rest of the cab ride home snuggled tightly against Sherlock's chest, one hand gripping a fistful of the detective's shirt, the other wrapped safely in his father's hand.

"Almost there," Sherlock murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to Hamish's curls.

By the time they finally did reach the flat, Hamish was practically asleep in Sherlock's arms.

He quickly hurried inside and knelt down on the floor, placing Hamish into a standing position.

"Hamish?" he asked gently, holding the little boy on either side of his arms.

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish replied sadly, tiredly pressing a fist into his eyes.

"I need you to listen to me for a moment, okay?"

"Mmm-hmm... 'Kay, Daddy." Blinking slowly, Hamish stared up into his father's grey eyes, absentmindedly grabbing ahold of some of Sherlock's sleeve.

"Hamish," Sherlock began gently. "I will never—_never_—let anyone hurt you. And I will never allow anyone to take you away from me. I promise... I will keep you safe. And no one is ever going to be able to hurt you again." With sad eyes, Sherlock gently pressed his fingertips to the small scar on Hamish's collarbone. "No one," he repeated quietly. "I promise... You will always be safe with me."

Eyes brightening ever so slightly, Hamish hurried forward and wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, pressing his face into the smooth skin. "'Ove, Daddy. Hame 'ove." With tender hands, the little boy slowly draped one of his arms of Sherlock's shoulder. "'Ove," he whispered, splaying his chubby fingers across the scar on his father's shoulder blade.

"I love you, too, Hamish... So much." The detective felt a wave of relief wash over him as he felt Hamish smile against his skin. Moving slowly, the little boy took his hand, and pressed his chubby fingers to his lips, giving them a kiss.

"'Etter," he whispered as he pressed his fingers back to Sherlock's shoulder, pressing a "kiss' to his father's scar.

"An' 'etter," he murmured again, gently tugging on the detective's hair. He pointed to his own scar on his collarbone.

Sherlock smiled, amazed once again by his son. Gazing lovingly at Hamish, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to the little boy's small scar. "All better," he murmured against the skin.

"'Es, Daddy. No ouch." Now, almost as if he was hoping to reassure his father, Hamish gave Sherlock a reassuring smile before wrapping his arms around the detective's neck and bending up to press an incredibly gentle kiss to Sherlock's cheek.

"'Ove, Daddy... 'Etter," he whispered against the detective's skin.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, a fluttering warmth flooding his entire body. "All better... Thank you, Hamish."

"Mmm," the little boy hummed in response, a sweet smile turning up the corners of his lips. He leaned forward, resting his weight against Sherlock. With a single yawn and one more quick kiss on the cheek, Hamish reached up, draping his arms around his father's shoulders.

"'Ove, Daddy," he whispered once more, before quickly falling asleep.

"I love you, too," Sherlock murmured, smiling as he felt Hamish's hand curl against his shoulder blade, resting just over his scar. "We're going to be okay... All better."


	23. Chapter Twenty-Three: Scared?

**Hey guys! So this is just a cute little fluffy chapter for the end of the weekend. Hope you all enjoy it! Thanks! =)**

Chapter Twenty-Three: Scared?

Hamish continued to sleep soundly in Sherlock's arms, his small body fitting perfectly against the detective's chest, with his head tucked under his father's chin. Sherlock slowly paced around the flat, tenderly stroking his fingertips over Hamish's curls as he walked, listening to the little boy's gentle breathing.

Shortly after, John returned to the flat, with Mary following closely behind. Minding Hamish's sleeping form, Sherlock quickly sat down in his chair, allowing the doctor and his fiancé to share the couch.

"Are you all right?" he asked Mary quietly, hoping he sounded reassuring. Although he was quite fond of Mary (which he would never admit to John), he never really knew how to start a conversation around her.

"Much better now. Thank you," she said, giving the detective a small smile. "How's he?" She gave a quick nod of her head to Hamish. "Oh. John told me," she added as explanation.

"He's been sleeping practically since we got home, but he was clearly very shaken by the whole situation." Sherlock paused, taking a moment to quickly run his hand through Hamish's curls. "I think he'll be okay, but I fear it may take him a little while fully adjust back."

"Poor little guy," John inputted sadly, gazing at the sleeping boy in his friend's arms. "Has to be hard..."

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured in response, staring down at his son's sleeping form. His thoughts were interrupted, though, by the sound of the front door opening, and someone bustling up the stairs.

Brows pulled together in confusion, both John and Sherlock stared at the doorway, waiting to see who had entered the flat.

"Not to worry," came the drawling voice of Mycroft. "It's just me." His impeccably dressed form slowly entered the flat.

"Shh," Sherlock shushed quietly, nodding towards Hamish.

"Oh! Right. My apologizes. I just came by to reassure you that..." His eyes quickly darted towards Mary, who was gazing curiously at him. "Umm... That everything has been successfully taken care of... And discarded, shall we say?"

"Excellent," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. "Thank you."

"Well. I'd best be off, then. I've a—"

"You could stay," John interrupted quickly, glancing at Sherlock. "I mean, I know it would mean a lot to Hamish if he woke up and Uncle Mycroft was here." The doctor quickly looked the between the two brothers, a small smile forming on his face.

Mycroft paused, peering at his brother. "Very well. If you insist." Umbrella in hand, he slowly meandered towards the doorway to kitchen, and leaned against the frame. Almost immediately after, the doorbell rang.

"Ah," said John, shooting Sherlock an apologetic glance. "That'll probably be—"

"Hello, guys!" came the cheerful voice of Molly. "Umm... Listen, I could use a little help—"

"Don't worry, John, I've got it!" Lestrade called.

"John," Sherlock whined, shooting the doctor a look. "Did you invite everyone?"

"No," the doctor chuckled, standing up. "Only Molly. Your brother and Lestrade are here on their own accord." He hurried away down the stairs to help Molly, who was chatting happily with Greg.

More for Molly than anything else, Sherlock slowly stood up and made his way to the landing of the stairs, smiling in spite of himself as he saw her heavily pregnant form come waddling around the corner, flanked on either side by both John and Lestrade.

"Oh! Hello there," the pathologist called cheerfully upon seeing the detective at the top of the stairs. She slowly made her way up the rest of the stairs, gratefully thanking the doctor and the Inspector for their help.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock said quietly, bending down to press a quick kiss to her cheek. "Everything is well, I presume?"

The pathologist smiled, giving the detective a knowing look. "Yes, Sherlock. We're both doing just fine." Sherlock chuckled to himself as Molly gave him a reassuring pat on his shoulder and then made her way into the flat, cradling her stomach as she walked.

"Here. You can take John's chair," Sherlock said, nodding as he sat down in his own.

"Well! It's just like a party, isn't it?" Lestrade said cheerfully, once everyone was properly situated around the tiny flat. "Oh! Sorry," he added quickly, upon receiving a glare from Sherlock.

The flat was suddenly filled with an awkward silence, during which everyone sat around staring at each other, each waiting for someone else to start the conversation, though all of this went unnoticed by Sherlock, as he was preoccupied with playing with Hamish's hair.

"Well, umm," John started awkwardly, standing up off the couch. "I don't know about anyone else, but I could certainly do with a drink, hmm? It's been a pretty crazy day for all of us." With a small smile, the doctor quickly scanned around the room, eyebrows raised in question.

"I would love a drink," Lestrade sighed happily, glad to be relieved of the awkward silence.

"Okay. One. Mary?"

"A drink would be lovely, thank you," she said gratefully, reaching up to give John's hand a loving squeeze. John gave her a reassuring smile before turning his attention back to the guests.

"Mycroft?"

"No thank you," he answered, with a small smile as he slowly twirled the umbrella in his hand.

John nodded, and started to make his way towards the kitchen. "Sherlock?" he asked quietly, turning back towards his flatmate.

"Hmm? What?" the detective asked, pulling his attention away from Hamish.

"A drink," John chuckled. "Do you want a drink?"

"Oh. No, thank you John."

"Of course." With a small nod of his head, the doctor hurried away into the kitchen to grab the beverages for everyone.

Beginning to relax slightly, Mary and Molly started to chat with each other as Mycroft and Lestrade listened in, waiting for John to return with the drinks.

"So when are you due?" Mary asked, leaning back into the soft cushions of the couch.

"About a month and a half," the pathologist answered happily, absentmindedly rubbing her hand across her stomach.

"Are you excited?"

"To be honest," Molly chuckled nervously. "I'm absolutely terrified. I mean, I'm excited, of course," she added quickly. "Just a little bit nervous. I mean I have no idea what to expect."

"Of course," Mary answered reassuringly, giving the pathologist a small smile.

"Right!" John called, exiting the kitchen with bottles in his hand. "I hope this is all right for everyone?"

"Wonderful," Lestrade said happily, hurrying forward to take one of the drinks out of John's hands.

Chuckling, the doctor quickly dolled out the rest of the bottles, saving one for himself.

Drinks in hand, and getting comfortably situated around the flat, everyone started to chat lightly with each other, all trying to talk away the worry and panic of earlier that day.

Worried that the increasingly loud noise would wake Hamish, Sherlock stood up, excusing himself from the room, and made his way into the kitchen. Upon feeling the movement, though, and having already been slightly jostled by the loud chattering, Hamish shifted in the detective's arms, eyes slowly blinking open.

"Mmm," he hummed tiredly, eyebrows pulling together in confusion as he heard the loud noise of talking coming from the usually quiet flat.

"What loud, Daddy?" he asked, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder in an effort to escape the offensive sound.

The detective chuckled quietly, angling himself so Hamish could better gaze around the flat. "Well," he murmured quietly, pressing a quick kiss to the little boy's hair, "It appears we have a few guests. See? Uncle Mycroft is here... And Aunt Molly and Mary."

Still tired and now very confused, Hamish pulled away from Sherlock's shoulder, turning to gaze around the flat. He gasped quietly, jumping in his father's arms as he saw all of the people crowding around his small home.

"What doing, Daddy?" he asked quietly, gripping onto the detective's shirt.

"They all came to check in on you," Sherlock answered quietly, giving Hamish a reassuring pat on the back. "It's okay, love." He leaned closer to the little boy's ear, whispering so only he could hear. "I'm right here."

Hamish nodded slowly, releasing his grip on the detective's shirt. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, relaxing into Sherlock's arms as he gazed around the flat. "Help Hame?"

"Yes," inputted Molly, hoping to lift the little boy's spirits. "We all came to help you."

Clearly noticing her for the first time, Hamish gasped happily at the sight of Molly, a large smile spreading across his face as he leaned toward her in Sherlock's arms. "Aunt Molly!" he cried happily, stretching his hands towards her.

Not wanting her to have to move, Sherlock hurried over to where Molly was seated and gently passed Hamish over before moving to his own chair. He sat down, crossing his legs as he gazed fondly at his son's happiness, glad that there was a distraction to take the little boy's mind off of the earlier events of that day.

"Molly," the little boy sighed, wrapping his arms around the pathologist's neck in a tight hug. "Oh," he gasped in wonder upon noticing her larger belly for the first time.

"Daddy!" he called, turning around to stare, wide-eyed at his father. Mouth hanging open in awe, Hamish tenderly pressed his hand to Molly's stomach, squealing happily as he felt the baby move under his touch. "Wow, Daddy!" he said, grinning widely at his father.

Sherlock smiled lovingly, chuckling at his son's wonder. "I know," he said enthusiastically. "It's amazing, isn't it? And just think—soon, we'll be able to see the baby you're feeling right now."

Though it didn't seem possible, Hamish's eyes widened even more, and he glanced with amazement between Molly's stomach and Sherlock.

"Really, Daddy?" he gasped, placing another hand to the pathologist's belly.

"Mmm-hmm," Molly hummed happily, sharing a quick smile with Sherlock.

"Wow..." Hamish sighed, smiling as he felt another kick under his palms.

"Baby soon, Daddy?"

"Yes," the detective answered quietly, a smile playing on his lips as he watched Hamish. "We'll get to see Molly's baby soon."

Smiling in amazement, the little boy continued to sit with Molly, giggling happily each time he felt the baby move.

* * *

Eventually, after having noticed Mycroft, Hamish practically bounced out of Molly's lap, to be caught just in time by Sherlock, before quickly toddling over to his uncle.

"Unk My!" he cried happily, reaching his arms up in expectation. Chuckling to himself, and smiling smugly at the eye roll Sherlock had just given him, Mycroft bent down, lifting the little boy into his arms.

"Why, hello," he greeted happily, allowing Hamish to closely examine his tie, which by now was just a ritual for the two.

"Molly baby!" the little boy informed excitedly, taking is attention away from the tie so he could point at Molly.

"Yes, I know," Mycroft chuckled. "So I've heard." He smiled as Hamish dutifully resumed the examination of his tie, carefully running his chubby finger over the bumpy fabric. He decided to say nothing about the small smile he saw creeping onto his brother's face.

* * *

After having been passed around to everyone in the room, and talking at length with each one, Hamish was seated in Sherlock's lap once again, playing happily with the detective's fingers as the adults chatted happily, the stress of that day now almost completely gone.

Laughing at something John had just said, Molly glanced towards the clock on the wall. "Well," she sighed contently, "I think it's time for me to be off." Smiling, she pushed herself upward, struggling slightly as she tried to pull herself out of the doctor's deep chair.

"Help, Daddy!" Hamish cried frantically, quickly sliding off of Sherlock's lap as he saw Molly struggling to get out of the chair.

Smiling at his son, the detective quickly stood up and reached his hands forward, helping the pathologist to her feet.

"Ohh. Thank you," she sighed gratefully.

"Here, Aunt Molly. Hame help." Smiling once again, now that he was sure Molly was fine, Hamish reached up, wrapping his chubby hand around several of Molly's slender fingers. "Hame help at stairs."

"Oh!" the pathologist exclaimed happily, giving the little boy a warm smile. "Thank you very much, Hamish." She quickly glanced back to share quick smile with Sherlock. "Lead the way."

Smiling proudly, and keeping his hand wrapped firmly around Molly's fingers, Hamish walked toddled forward towards the stairs, tenderly leading Molly all the way.

"Come, Daddy?" he asked, pausing to turn back towards his father.

Unable to contain his happiness, Sherlock grinned. "Of course." Smiling happily, the detective moved forward, trailing slowly behind Hamish as he led Molly to the stairs, not even caring as he saw John take out his phone and start to film them.

"Oh," Hamish said, frowning as he reached the landing, realizing he would have to go down both flights by himself.

"Umm..." A worried look on his face, he turned back to Sherlock. "Daddy?"

Chuckling, the detective bent down, and lifted Hamish into his arms. "Here. How about we both help Aunt Molly down the stairs? You can keep ahold of her hand, and I'll walk us down, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish answered seriously, nodding in agreement.

Glad to be back in his father's arms, the little boy relaxed, that proud smile returning to his face as he kept a firm hold of Molly's hand while they slowly made their way down the stairs.

"Thank you so much, Hamish," Molly said happily, upon reaching the bottom of the stairs. "I'm not sure I could have done it without you." She smiled warmly, giving the little boy a quick wink.

Giggling, Hamish turned his Sherlock's arms, and pressed his face into the detective's shoulder.

"'Es, Molly," he replied quietly, turning so he could just see her out of the corner of his eye.

Molly chuckled, leaning forward to give the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. "Bye-bye, Hamish. I'll see you later, okay?"

"B-bye," the little boy giggled happily, giving her a sweet smile before pressing a tender kiss to her fingers, which were still held in his hand."Bye, Baby!" he called, leaning forward towards Molly's stomach.

Chuckling happily, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Molly's cheek. "Bye, Molly. Take care."

Smiling warmly, she gave the detective a quick squeeze on the arm before hurrying out the door.

As the door shut behind her, Sherlock turned to Hamish, who was still giggling madly in his arms.

"What?" he asked comically, laughing as the little boy pressed his face into his shoulder once again. "What's so funny, hmm?" Grinning, he gently tickled Hamish's neck.

"Daddy!" the little boy laughed, shoving the detective's hands away. "Silly... Daddy?"

"Yes?" Sherlock chuckled, already making his way up the stairs.

"S'cret?" Hamish asked hopefully, wrapping his chubby hand around the detective's collar.

"A secret?" Sherlock gasped. "Why, I'd love to hear a secret!" Smiling, he paused on the steps, leaning his head down towards Hamish.

Grinning widely, the little boy leaned up, and slowly brushed away some of his father's curls before pressing his lips to his ear and whispering bashfully, "Molly bat'um'ful."

Giggling madly, Hamish pulled away, and buried his face in Sherlock's shirt, laughing against the detective's skin.

Sherlock stared down at his son with a loving gaze before pulling the little boy close. "Not to worry," he murmured. "Your secret is safe with me." Chuckling, he pressed a tender kiss to the top of Hamish's curls, continuing his way up to the flat, with the little boy giggling all the way.

* * *

After Molly, Mycroft was the next to leave, giving a quick goodbye hug and kiss to Hamish before politely excusing himself. Next was Lestrade, who waved a quick goodbye to everyone before hurrying out of the flat. Mary and John remained behind for a little while, sitting snuggled together on the couch as the daylight quickly slipped away outside.

"Well," the doctor sighed eventually, standing up to walk over to Hamish, who was seated on the ground, desperately trying to pull his shirt off. "Hey," John chuckled, bending down. He quickly tugged the shirt off, tossing it over the arm of his chair. "Well, Mary and I are headed off, little man. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

"Oh," Hamish said sadly, a small frown forming on his face. "John bye-bye?"

The doctor smiled sadly before pulling the little boy into a tight hug. "Yeah, I'm going bye-bye. But it's okay! I'll be back tomorrow, I promise." Smiling reassuringly, John leaned back so he could see Hamish. "Now. Can I have a goodnight kiss?"

Despite his sadness at having John leave, a small smile tugged at the corners of Hamish's lips. "'Es, John," he whispered happily, leaning up towards the doctor's face. Smiling sweetly, the little boy pressed a gentle kiss to John's cheek before giving him a tight hug. "Nigh', night, John," he whispered against the doctor's jumper.

"Goodnight, little man," John replied quietly, quickly kissing Hamish on the forehead. He stood up, pulling the little boy into his arms. "Now can you say bye-bye to Mary?"

"B-bye, Mary," Hamish replied quietly, giving a tiny wave of his hand and a small smile.

"Good man." Smiling fondly, John placed Hamish back on the ground just as Sherlock emerged from his bedroom, a pair of small pajama bottoms in hand.

"Did you already say goodbye to John?" he asked, setting the fabric on the back of the doctor's chair.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied happily. He hurried over towards Sherlock, grabbing a fistful of the detective's pants in his hand. Eyes drooping slightly, the small boy leaned against his father's leg before giving another little wave to John and Mary as the couple slowly made their way to the stairs.

Smiling down at Hamish, Sherlock gave Mary a quick kiss on the cheek and said his goodbye's to John before the two silently slipped out of the flat.

"Well!" the detective exclaimed quietly, turning his attention back to Hamish, who was now leaning fully against his leg as he yawned widely. "That was rather fun, I suppose." Smiling as he felt the little boy nod feebly against his leg, Sherlock bent down and quickly pulled the little boy into his arms. "Time for bed, hmm?" he whispered.

"'Es 'ease, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly, nodding against his father's shoulder.

A small small on his lips, Sherlock slowly made his way to his bedroom, gently bouncing the little boy in his arms. He quickly changed Hamish's nappy, not even bothering with the pajama bottoms, and then started to place the little boy in his crib.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, tapping on Sherlock's fingers as he stared up at him with tired eyes.

"Yes?" the detective asked gently, pulling his son's small form back into his arms.

"Umm... Ask?"

"Of course," Sherlock answered gently, brushing away some of the little boy's curls.

Hamish paused, looking around the room as if he was worried about what he wanted to ask. "Umm... Daddy have scared?"he whispered quietly, eyes finally coming back to the detective's face.

Sherlock paused, slightly taken aback by his son's question. "Do _I_ ever get scared?" he asked, gazing down at the little boy.

Hamish nodded tiredly, leaning forward to rest his head against his father's shoulder. "'Es, Daddy," he whispered, moving his hand to the base of Sherlock's neck.

Taking a deep breath, the detective leaned back in the bed, allowing his back to rest against the pillows and the headrest. "Yes," he murmured gently, peering down at Hamish. "I've been scared before. I got scared just today... I was scared when we were shot at, and I was afraid you might get hurt..." He paused, looking down at his son, who seemed to be mulling over his words. "Why, Hamish?" he prompted gently, giving the little boy a reassuring rub over his back.

"Hame had scared," Hamish replied quietly, taking a moment to gaze up at Sherlock with wide eyes.

"You got scared?" the detective whispered sadly, staring down at Hamish, who nodded against his chest.

"'Es, Daddy... Ouch... An'... Hame to know scared silly." Almost as if he seemed embarrassed by what he'd just said, the little boy quickly shoved his face into the detective's shirt, curling himself inward.

"No," Sherlock sighed sadly, pressing his hand to the back of Hamish's head. "Hamish?" he asked gently, urging the little boy to look at him. "Hamish, please look at me..."

Sniffling, almost as if he was going to cry, Hamish slowly pulled his face away from Sherlock's chest, and gazed up at the detective with sad, embarrassed eyes.

Smiling sadly, Sherlock placed one hand to the side of his son's face. "Hamish," he started, staring into the little boy's deep green eyes. "Being scared is never something to be embarrassed about, all right? It's perfectly normal. Everyone feels scared—even me. I promise, it's perfectly all right to feel scared... And you had every right to feel the way you did today. There is _nothing_ wrong with that, okay?" The detective smiled reassuringly, brushing his thumb across the top of the little boy's cheek.

Taking a deep breath, Hamish nodded against his father's hand, leaning into the touch. "'Es, Daddy... So... Daddy have scared?"

Smiling lovingly, Sherlock pulled Hamish's sleepy form into his lap. "Yes. I get scared. In fact... Would you like to hear _my_ secret?" he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper as he leaned in closer to Hamish.

"Oh," the little boy sighed. "'Es, Daddy." Eyes wide with anticipation, Hamish leaned forward, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

Gazing fondly at his son, Sherlock bent down, pressing his lips to the small boy's ear. "Once, not too long ago, John and I were on a case together, investigating a top-secret facility..." He paused, taking a moment to playfully tickle Hamish's stomach. "And guess what scared us?" The detective leaned back so he could see Hamish's face.

"What, Daddy?" the little boy whispered, his hands grabbing a fistful of the detective's shirt in anticipation.

Lips turned up in a half smile, Sherlock widened his eyes. "We both got scared out of our wits... By a dog!" he cried, quickly leaning forward to tickle Hamish's belly again.

"Doggy?" the little boy cried happily, laughing as he fell onto the bed. "Really, Daddy?" he giggled, gazing happily up Sherlock from where he was lying on the bed.

"_Really_," the detective said, bending down to blow his lips against Hamish's smooth skin. "But—and you can't tell John I said this... He was more scared of the dog than I was!"

Grinning, Hamish continued to laugh happily, wrapping his hands around Sherlock's fingers. "So scared 'kay?" he sighed happily, trying to catch his breath.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, smiling down at Hamish as he wrapped his hands around the little boy's fingers. "It's perfectly okay to be scared." Taking a deep breath, he pulled back before quickly bending down again to press several quick kisses to Hamish's cheeks and hair. "And don't you forget it!" he chuckled, pulling the little boy into his arms.

"Mmm," he sighed contently, closing his eyes as he caught his breath. "Ta, Daddy.'Ove," he said quietly, a small smile on his lips. "Nigh, night."

Gazing lovingly at the little boy in his arms, Sherlock slowly bent down and pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's brow. "Goodnight, Hamish... I love you, too."

With one last, deep sigh, the little boy fell asleep, that small smile still on his lips.

Smiling lovingly, Sherlock slowly moved to the other side of the bed and gently lowered Hamish's sleeping form into the crib. "Goodnight," he whispered again, running his thumb over the little boy's cheek. "Sleep well..."


	24. Chapter Twenty-Four: Napping

**Hey everyone! Okay, so I just finished this like two minutes ago (its 1:22), so, per the norm., there are probably going to be lots of errors! Please excuse! Thank you so much! I also want to thank everyone for the amazing feedback I have gotten on the last two chapters! You all are really so wonderful and your reviews help me to keep writing. So thank you very much! =)**

Chapter Twenty-Three: Napping

Hamish recovered quickly, soon returning to his normal self, with the scare of the shooter now over. However, both John and Sherlock had taken notice of the way the small boy had started to cling to the detective more frequently than usual, refusing to go anywhere without his father close by. And though Sherlock felt he should be worried, he secretly enjoyed having Hamish close with him.

Sherlock was seated in the kitchen, staring into his microscope with concentrated eyes. Hamish, whose favorite past time was watching his father think, was standing on the kitchen floor, one hand gripping the fabric of Sherlock's trousers as he stood, body wobbling slightly. "Mmm," he hummed to himself, a small smile playing on his lips as he heard the detective start to mumble to himself. With a content little sigh, Hamish leaned forward, pressing his cheek against Sherlock's leg.

"Could it be poison?" John called from the living room. He was seated at the table, eyes quickly skimming over the screen of his laptop. "I mean it fits everything Lestrade told us about him... The only question is, what kind of—"

"Of course!" Sherlock cried triumphantly, quickly pushing away his chair as stood up. "Tetrodotoxin! It all makes perfect sense now; how could I possibly have _missed_—Oh! Sorry, Hamish," he added hurriedly, realizing he'd knocked the little boy over as he turned. He quickly bent down and pulled the little boy, who was frowning as he sat on the ground, onto his hip. "Sorry," he apologized again, pressing a gentle kiss to his son's boy's temple.

Though momentarily upset at having been knocked over, Hamish was now smiling once again, giggling happily as Sherlock swung him around the room.

"Ohhh," the detective sighed contently, happy that the case was finally solved, seeing as he'd been working on it for three days straight, with little to no sleep.

Bouncing Hamish on his hip, Sherlock meandered out of the kitchen, a smug grin on his face. "Really, John," he sighed, giving the doctor a sideways glance. "You of all people should have known that... Tetrodotoxin. Simple." Humming happily to himself, the detective sat down behind John, moving Hamish to his knee as he settled into his chair. "Yes," he told the little boy earnestly, giving him a small wink. "John _most certainly_ should have known that," he whispered, brushing some of the little boy's curls out of his eyes.

"No, Daddy!" Hamish giggled happily, grabbing ahold of the hand Sherlock had wrapped around his middle. "John good!"

Smiling fondly at his son, the detective gave a small nod of his head, moving his hand so he was covering Hamish's fingers with his own. "I supposed I should apologize now, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy. Oh no make John said."

"Otherwise I'll make John sad?" Sherlock chuckled, giving a gentle squeeze of his hand. "Well," he sighed, feigning reluctance. "Yes... I guess I'll apologize so John won't be sad. And because that's what good boys do, right?"

"'Es! Right, Daddy," the little boy said cheerfully, giving a firm nod of his head as he smiled at John. "Good 'ay sorry."

"Very good," Sherlock praised. He took a deep breath, giving Hamish an over-exaggerated worried look, before turning back to John, who was now grinning with smugness.

"I'm ready," he chanted in a sing-song voice, raising his eyebrows at his flat mate.

"Fine. I'm sorry," Sherlock sighed dramatically, giving John a quick smile. He turned back to Hamish and raised his eyebrows, as if for reassurance. "Good?" he asked quietly, lips quirking up in a smile.

Hamish grinned and scooted forward in his father's lap. "Good, Daddy... Ver' 'etter." With a small sigh, the little boy pressed his face into Sherlock's chest and, as best he could, wrapped his chubby arms around the detective's waist.

"Very better," the detective repeated quietly, pulling his son's small body even closer to his chest. He tucked the little boy's head under his chin and turned back to exchange a smile with John. "Could you call Lestrade?" he mouthed quietly.

"'Course." With a quick nod and a smile, the doctor stood up, closing his laptop as he pulled out his phone. He hurried into the kitchen, already talking to the Inspector. "Greg. Yes, hello. Yep! Just now actually..." His voice slowly trailed off as he entered the kitchen.

"Mmm," Sherlock sighed, leaning back in the chair as he allowed Hamish to bend back, using his arms as a backrest for the little boy. Three days of no sleep finally catching up with him, the detective yawned widely, resting into the comfort chair as he felt the last bit of adrenaline leave his body.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked worriedly, reaching forward to rest his chubby fingers against the detective's lips. "Sleepy tie at Daddy?" he asked gently, fingernails scraping against his father's skin as his fingers curled.

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed in response, gazing down at his son with tired eyes. "Yes. Sleeping time for Daddy." He gave Hamish a small smile, quickly brushing his fingertips across the small boy's forehead. With a deep sigh, he stood up, setting Hamish on the ground just as John re-emerged from the kitchen.

"All good," the doctor said cheerfully, pausing as he saw how exhausted-looking his flat mate had suddenly become. He chuckled to himself, rolling his eyes as he moved forward towards the father and son. "I told you it would catch up with you," he said smugly, bending down so he was at eye-level with Hamish. "Hey, little man. Daddy needs to go and take a quick sleep now, okay? So how about you come with me, and we let Daddy take a rest, hmm?"

Instantly, the smile left Hamish's face, to be quickly replaced by a deep frown. He wrapped one chubby arm around the detective's leg, reaching up with his other hand to grab ahold of Sherlock's hand. "No 'ease, John," he said firmly, grip tightening around his father's hand. "Stay Daddy. At sleepy."

"It's all right, John," Sherlock reassured gently, giving Hamish's fingers a small squeeze. "He can stay with me for a little while. I'll be okay."

John sighed, giving his friend another eye roll. "All right," he said skeptically, shrugging as he smiled down at Hamish, who had clearly relaxed, and was now leaning against Sherlock's leg, his own chubby fingers held loosely in the detective's.

"Nigh' night, Daddy at John," he said quietly, tugging at his father's fingers.

"Right. Goodnight, John," Sherlock said quietly, chuckling down at Hamish before giving John a thankful smile. "Good?" he murmured, gazing down at the little boy.

"Good."

Yawning again, and with Hamish's hand held in his own, Sherlock walked forward, making his way to his room.

"Could you come in and check on him?" he whispered to John as he walked by. "Just in case—you know, I'm not up yet?"

"'Course," the doctor replied, giving his flat mate a light pat on the shoulder. "Now go sleep!" he said firmly. "Doctor's orders."

Sherlock huffed a chuckle, rolling his eyes. "Right. Well, then. Come on Hamish," he added gently, tugging the little boy forward.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy."

John chuckled as he watched a very tired Sherlock disappear into his room with Hamish, who had started to chatter happily to himself as he toddled forward.

"Ohh," the detective sighed tiredly as he collapsed onto the bed, the hand holding Hamish's still hanging off the bed.

"Uhh... Daddy?" the little boy asked quietly, tugging on Sherlock's hand, as he was still on the floor.

"Right. Sorry, Hamish... Up we go." With a soft groan, the detective pulled Hamish onto the bed, gently placing his small body to his left. "There we go," he murmured, rolling onto his side and settling comfortably into the warm bed. "There we go..."

"Daddy 'kay?" Hamish asked worriedly, pulling the detective's hand into his lap.  
"Hmm? Oh, yes. Yes, I'm okay, Hamish," Sherlock reassured gently, opening his eyes to give the little boy a reassuring smile. "Just tired, that's all... It's okay." He quickly brushed his free hand over Hamish's cheek.

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief. "Good, Daddy... 'Kay... Nigh' nigh'. S'eepy." With a tiny smile on his lips, Hamish leaned forward and haphazardly pressed his hands to Sherlock's face. He placed one of his hands over the detective's eyes. "Nigh, Daddy..."

Finding the feel of Hamish's chubby fingers against his face soothing, the corner of his lips turned up in a smile as his eyes slid shut. "Mmm." Before falling asleep, Sherlock gently wrapped his long fingers around his son's chubby stomach, pulling the little boy closer to his torso.

Staring peacefully at his now-sleeping father, Hamish removed his hands from Sherlock's face, and bent back, resting comfortably in the detective's touch. He scooted forward, resting his head against Sherlock's waist, as he absentmindedly traced the detective's fingers. His sea-green eyes slowly meandered around the room as his head moved up and down with the gentle rise and fall of his father's breathing.

* * *

"Hamish?" John whispered quietly, opening the door to Sherlock's room. He slowly entered the room, and couldn't help but pause and smile at the sight of his flat mate, sleeping soundly on the bed, with Hamish's tiny form lying across his side.

"'Es, John?" the little boy asked quietly, opening his eyes to gaze at the doctor from where he was resting.

"Hey, buddy. Listen, can I take you with me for a moment? I need your help with something," he whispered, hurrying over to the bed.

"Hame help?" Hamish asked quietly, lifting his head to gaze at John.

"Yes," the doctor murmured, smiling at the little boy.

"'Eave, Daddy," he stated, frowning as he realized what this would require.

"Only for a little while," John reassured him with a small smile.

Hamish contemplated for a moment, his grip tightening around Sherlock's limp fingers. "'Kay, John," he whispered eventually, reaching his free arm up towards John in expectation.

"Good man," the doctor praised. Moving slowly and carefully, so as not to wake Sherlock, though he knew he wouldn't, John slowly pulled Hamish from the detective's grasp, struggling slightly to pry his fingers from around the little boy's middle.

"There," he sighed now that Hamish was in his arms. "Come on, then." Bouncing the little boy, John hurried out of the room, shutting the door behind him. "All right, we have to go down to Mrs. Hudson's flat, okay?" he asked, giving the little boy a light pat on the back.

"Nana?" Hamish asked, now excited about the prospect of getting to see the landlady.

"Yep! I need your help with a decision, okay?"

"Oh... 'Es, John! Hame help!" Grinning, Hamish clapped his hands together once, bouncing in the doctor's arms.

"Excellent." Chuckling at the little boy's excitement, John hurried down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson's flat, where the landlady was humming to herself as she danced around the kitchen. "Oh!" she called happily, rushing forward to give Hamish a quick kiss on the cheek. "Hello, love!"

"Nana!" the little boy called happily, bending forward in John's arms to give her a tight hug around the neck. "He'o! Hame help?"

"Oh! Yes. Right over there, darling," Mrs. Hudson replied cheerfully, nodding to her sitting room. "I've got to finish up cooking in here, but John can take you over there."

Flashing the landlady a smile, John made his way into the sitting room where several rolls of tape, many yards of wrapping paper, and lots of un-wrapped items were strewn across the floor.

"John... What doing?" Hamish asked curiously, gazing down at the mess around the doctor's feet.

John laughed, giving the little boy a quick kiss on the cheek. "Well this is what I need your help with," he explained, sitting down on the ground. He placed Hamish in his lap, chuckling as he saw how overwhelmed the little boy clearly was.

"John?" he whispered, gripping tightly onto the doctor's jumper as his eyes scanned the mess. "No 'ease Hame help," he said firmly, shaking his head.

"No, no, no," John laughed, smiling at the boy in his lap. "Not with cleaning the mess up. I need help with this." Keeping Hamish close to his chest, John scooted forward towards the table where many items were resting upon the surface. He pulled two, a coffee mug and a small pop-out magnifying glass, off of the table and onto the floor, before turning his attention back to Hamish.

"Hamish," he began gently, pulling the little boy's attention back to him. "Tomorrow is Daddy's birthday, okay? And you need to give him a gift, but I didn't know which of these you would want to give him. So! Which do you want to give Daddy as a birthday present?"

"Tre's'nt? Like Hame?"

"Yes!" John encouraged happily. "Just like you got on _your_ birthday not too long ago, remember?"

A large grin spread across Hamish's face as he stared at John. "Hame for Daddy?" he asked excitedly, pointing back at the two items on the floor.

"Yep! You get to pick one. Which do you want?"

Eyes wide with excitement, Hamish stared down at the two choices in front of him. Worrying his lip as he debated, the little boy eventually took a deep breath before pointing to the magnifying glass.

"'Es, John," he said decidedly, giving a firm nod of his head.

"Wonderful," John murmured, standing up once again. "Thank you very, very much, Hamish," he said, giving the little boy another kiss. "You've been a great helper."

"Ta, John!" Hamish cried happily, reaching up to wrap his arms around the doctor's neck. "Daddy 'prise ah-morrow?" he asked hopefully, holding onto to John's jumper as they made their way back into Mrs. Hudson's kitchen.

"Yep! Tomorrow's Daddy's birthday, and we're giving him a surprise party. But shh! You can't tell him, otherwise it won't be a surprise anymore, see?" John smiled as Hamish nodded earnestly.

"'Es, John. S'cret."

"Exactly! A secret... All right... Now say bye-bye to Mrs. Hudson. We'll see you tomorrow!"

"B-bye, Nana!" Hamish called happily, waving at the busy landlady.

"Bye, love," she replied cheerfully, pausing to give the little boy a warm smile. "See you tomorrow!"

"'Es! Shh," Hamish warned quietly, pressing is fingers to his mouth as his looked up, almost as if he were afraid Sherlock would fall out of the ceiling, having heard the entire secret.

"Right. Of course, darling," Mrs. Hudson whispered back, smiling at John.

"See you Mrs. H.," John chuckled, exiting her flat.

"All right," the doctor sighed as he made his way back up the stairs. "Do you want to go back in with Daddy?"

"'Es 'ease, John. Daddy 'eed Hame."

John smiled, tugging the little boy closer to his chest. "Of course he does. You've been a big help today, Hame. Thank you," the doctor whispered as he entered the quiet flat. "You have a good rest with Daddy, now, okay?"

Hamish nodded, leaning his head against John's shoulder as they entered Sherlock's room. "'Es, John," he whispered quietly, reaching his arms down towards his father's sleeping form. "Daddy an' Hame nigh nigh'."

"Right," John smiled, giving the little boy one last kiss on the cheek. "There you go." Moving slowly, the doctor lowered Hamish back onto the bed, placing him in the small gap between Sherlock's hand and his chest.

"Ta, John," Hamish whispered, stretching up towards the doctor as he pulled away. John smiled as he felt the little boy press a gentle kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, Hamish," he murmured quietly. "Have a good nap, you two."

"Mmm," the little boy sighed, settling into the warmth of Sherlock's body as John silently left the room, closing the door behind him.

Sensing his son's presence, Sherlock's hand gently wrapped around Hamish's middle, subconsciously pulling him closer.

"Hmm," he sighed in his sleep upon feeling the little boy close to his chest. His lips turned up ever so slightly.

Yawning widely, Hamish lay down on the bed, and snuggled forward, pressing his tiny form against Sherlock's chest. Sighing contently, he curled himself inward, nuzzling further into the detective's warm body. A small smile on his lips as his eyes fluttered open and close, Hamish reached up, draping one arm over Sherlock's shoulder as his breathing slowed and quieted.

With one last deep breath, the little boy's eyes slid shut and he fell asleep, his arm slowly rising and falling with each of Sherlock's deep breaths.


	25. Chapter 25: The Best Birthday Present

Chapter Twenty-Five: The Best Birthday Present

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of bustling outside of his door. Taking a deep breath, the detective slowly opened his eyes, his acute senses coming to life. Upon trying to move, though, he realized that there was a small mass wrapped tightly in his arms. Smiling, Sherlock closed his eyes, pressing Hamish's small form even closer to his chest. He bent down, letting his cheek rest on top of the little boy's head and took a deep breath.

"Mmm... Daddy?" Hamish asked groggily, squirming in his father's grasp as he was awoken by the sudden movement.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, pulling back and releasing his son's body. "Sorry."

"'Kay, Daddy..." Frowning at having been woken up, Hamish yawned, his tiny fist clenching and unclenching as he pressed his face into Sherlock's shirt. "Uhh," he groaned, grabbing a handful of the fabric. "No up 'ease, Daddy?"

Sherlock laughed, bending down to press a soft kiss to the little boy's curls. "Sorry, Hamish," he chuckled, placing one hand on his son's back. "But we've got to get up, I'm afraid... But," he added cheerfully, hoping it would help wake Hamish up. "It smells like Mrs. Hudson's been cooking, hmm?" He quickly rubbed his palm up and down Hamish's back.

"'Es, Daddy... Daddy up 'ease Hame?" the little boy whispered, peering up at the detective with wide, tired eyes.

"Of course. I'll help you get up. Ohh," Sherlock sighed, pulling Hamish into his arms and onto his hip as he left the bed. "You're getting too big for this," he joked, gently tickling the little boy's stomach.

"Daddy," Hamish sighed, giggling half-heartedly into the detective's shoulder. A small smile on his lips, he closed his eyes, resting comfortably in his father's arms.

Smiling fondly at his son, Sherlock quickly ran a hand through his own hair, returning it to its usual tousled look, and then opened the door to his room, walking out into the hallway. He paused upon hearing what sounded like John and Mrs. Hudson whispering in the kitchen, followed closely by the sound of paper rustling. Brows pulled together in confusion, the detective rounded the corner, stopping completely as he saw a large cake on the kitchen table, surrounded by several presents wrapped in colorful paper, and Mrs. Hudson and John gathered around the table, large grins on their faces.

"Oh, Sherlock!" the landlady cheered happily, hurrying around the table. She scurried up to the detective, going on tiptoe to give him a motherly kiss on the cheek. "Happy Birthday, dear." She smiled up at him, and gave him a quick pat on the cheek.

"Nana?" came the quiet voice of Hamish, who had woken up upon hearing her excited cries.

"Yes, Hamish," Sherlock answered slowly, remaining still in the doorway as he stared questioningly at John. "It would seem Mrs. Hudson and John have taken it upon themselves to celebrate my birthday... Despite all of my previous protests," he added, muttering under his breath as he glared at John. The detective jumped slightly upon feeling Hamish bounce suddenly in his arms. He turned his attention to the little boy, who was tugging excitedly at his collar, all tiredness clearly gone.

"Oh! 'Pride, 'pride!" he cried triumphantly, wrapping his chubby arms around Sherlock's neck. "Bi'f'hay at Daddy!"

"Very good, Hamish," John praised, smiling at the excited little boy. "It _is_ a surprise for Daddy's birthday, isn't it? You did a very good job keeping the secret, Hame."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, giving the doctor a dithering look. "You know I don't like celebrating such things, John," he said anxiously, clearly uncomfortable with the whole situation.

"You were fine celebrating Hamish's birthday," John countered, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, becasue he's my son and I enjoy making him happy and giving him something to celebrate, but this is different, its—" The detective stopped, blushing at his own words. "I—It's—Oh, you know what I mean," he cried, exasperated.

"Daddy?" Hamish said quietly, tapping the detective on the neck and staring up at Sherlock with worried eyes. "No baf'ay at Daddy?" he asked sadly.

"Oh, umm..." Sherlock paused, taking a moment to stare into the little boy's sea-green eyes. He smiled sadly, running his fingertips over Hamish's back. "Okay," he murmured eventually. "I suppose... Just this once, mind you... I suppose it wouldn't be _too_ horrible to celebrate my birthday... If you want to." Though still unhappy with the situation, the detective couldn't help but soften as he saw Hamish's eyes light up, a wide grin spreading across chubby face.

"Hap' bif'a'hay, Daddy!" the little boy cried happily, throwing his arms around his father's neck. "Ta, Daddy," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of the detective's lips.

Sherlock laughed, placing his hand on the back of Hamish's head. "You're welcome," he chuckled, pulling back to gaze lovingly at the little boy. "Okay," he sighed dramatically, turning his attention back to the room. "Come on then. What's first?"

John grinned, giving Hamish a wide smile. "Well, I suppose we could—"

"Tres'tent!" the little boy exclaimed excitedly, clapping his hands together.

"All right, then! Sounds good to me," John chuckled, moving to the other side of the table.

"Very well," Sherlock sighed. "Hamish, do you want down or do you want to stay with me?"

The little boy thought for a moment, one hand gripping onto his father's shirt, face scrunching up as he thought. "Daddy," he answered, with a firm nod of his head.

Sherlock smiled, giving Hamish a gentle pat on the back. "Excellent," he said, making his way to the other side of the table, by John.

"How about you pick, Hamish?" Mrs. Hudson asked gently, smiling at the little boy.

Grinning, Hamish leaned forward in Sherlock's arms, keeping a fistful of the detective's shirt in his hand as he gazed at the few presents on the table. Sherlock smiled fondly at his son, instinctively leaning forward with the little boy so as to make sure he wouldn't fall.

"John," he stated finally, pointing at a small present with a small nod of his head.

Chuckling, the doctor leaned forward, grabbing the tiny gift and passing it to Sherlock. "There you go."

"Mmm," Sherlock thanked in reply, moving Hamish to his hip as he took the present. He placed it on the table, clearing his throat as he started to open it. He paused, turning to the little boy, who was practically vibrating with excitement in his arms. "Would you like to help?" he asked quietly, the corner of his lips quirking up as he saw Hamish's eyes widen.

"Real, Daddy?"

"Yes," the detective chuckled, pulling up a chair and sitting down. "Really. I would love to have your help." He smiled, setting Hamish in his lap and scooting closer to the table.

A small smile on his lips, the little boy leaned forward, wrapping his chubby hands around the present, and pulled it onto his lap. He frowned slightly, trying to figure out how to go about opening the wrapped gift. "Daddy?" he asked, turning the present over in his hands.

Sherlock chuckled, wrapping one hand around Hamish's middle, and pulling him closer to his torso. "Here," he murmured, leaning around his son's body and taking the gift in his free hand. Sharing a smile with John, the detective gently pried away a piece of tape holding the wrapping together. "There you go. Start there." Smiling, Sherlock gently tapped the torn paper.

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy." Face pulled together in concentration, Hamish started to pull at the present, slowly tearing away the wrapping.

"Thank you for the mug, John," Sherlock whispered out of the corner of his mouth, giving the doctor a smug smile.

Pressing his lips together, John heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, shaking his head at the detective. "You know what every single one is, don't you?"

Staring fondly as Hamish continued to open the present, Sherlock merely smiled in reply, lips turned up in a sly smile.

Mrs. Hudson giggled to herself, grinning at the two flat mates.

"You just can't—Ugh!" John cried, running a hand through his short hair. "You're impossible."

Sherlock chuckled, turning to the doctor. "I'm hardly _impossible_, John," he drawled, giving his friend a knowing look. "I'm merely occasionally difficult."

John chuckled humorlessly. "Right. Of course. _Occasionally difficult_. That's what it is."

"Tres'tent!" came the triumphant cry of Hamish, interrupting the two flat mates' bickering.

"Oh, very good, Hamish," Sherlock praised, taking the blue coffee mug from his son's chubby hands. He quickly kissed the little boy on the cheek, chuckling at his excitement.

"Help, Daddy?"

"You want to help with another?" the detective asked lovingly, keeping his hand wrapped around the little boy's middle.

Hamish paused, staring up at his father with wide eyes. "'Es, Daddy?" he asked, almost as if he was afraid he was not allowed to help with more than one present.

"Of course," Sherlock encouraged quietly, giving Hamish's stomach a gentle squeeze.

"Oh," the little boy sighed, relaxing in the detective's grasp. The content smile returning to his face, Hamish turned back to the table and quickly pointed to a box-shaped gift. "Daddy?" he asked, turning back to his father to make sure that it was okay to choose said present.

"It's all right," Sherlock murmured, giving the little boy a reassuring smile. Making sure he wasn't squeezing Hamish against the table, the detective leaned forward, grabbing the object in his hand. "Here you go." Smiling lovingly at his son, Sherlock gently placed the heavy book on his thigh, opting to have the weight on his own lap, rather than in Hamish's much smaller one.

"Ta, Daddy," the little boy thanked quietly, giving his father a happy smile before turning his attention back to the gift. Bottom lip protruding in concentration, he started to gently peel away the wrapping, trying not to rip it too much.

"Surely you can't know what this one—"

"A book on outer space, meant to be used as a joke, due to my lack of knowledge of the solar system. Hardly difficult."

John huffed, shaking his head back and forth at his friend. "Come on, then. How'd you know?" he asked, smiling in spite of himself.

"Obvious, John," the detective replied, absentmindedly brushing away some of Hamish's curls from his forehead. "You happened to be staring at that particular gift when I entered the kitchen, smiling in a way that suggested the object would probably be used as some sort of joke or prank. Knowing you, such an object would have to be about something that accentuates my lack of knowledge on a certain subject. And, seeing as there's very little I am _not_ knowledgable about, the most possible subjects would be either my lack of knowledge on the solar system or spray paint (due that incident with the smuggling case several years ago). However, seeing as the spray paint was never brought up again, yet my little knowledge of the solar system has been brought up numerous times in the past, that would mean a book (clear from the shape) would be on information about the solar system. Simple, John."

The room was suddenly silent, with Mrs. Hudson glancing between the two flat mates, John staring at Sherlock with a confused expression on his face, said detective gazing back at John in a very "matter-of-fact" way, and Hamish, who, upon hearing his father's rapid speaking, had forgotten the present and was staring up the detective, mouthing hanging open in a small smile.

"Wow, Daddy," the little boy sighed in amazement, breaking the awkward silence of the flat. All eyes turned to him, and then, suddenly everyone was laughing, the loud noise filling the otherwise-quiet flat.

"Ohh," John sighed, chuckling as he tried to catch his breath. "Okay. Fair enough. Point made... Brilliant," he added under his breath.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly, having completely unwrapped the book while the adults were laughing. He grunted quietly, trying to hand the thick book to Sherlock, but unable to lift it with his own tiny arms..

"Oh! Sorry, Hamish," the detective chuckled, taking the gift from his son's chubby hands. "Thank you for opening that for me. You're a wonderful helper," he praised lovingly, pulling Hamish's hands to his lips to give the little boy's fingers a gentle kiss. "How about another one?"

"Oh! 'Es 'ease, Daddy!"

* * *

Several presents later (all of which were opened by Hamish, who, each time had been careful not rip the wrapping too much), Sherlock had received a few more gifts, consisting of a new watch from Mrs. Hudson, as well as some sheet music for his violin and a card with money from John.

"All right," John declared happily, giving Hamish a secretive smile. He reached down the table, grabbing the last present. "Here you go, Hame. This is the one you chose for Daddy, remember? How about you let him open it?"

Suddenly, upon seeing his present, the little boy looked very worried. He turned in Sherlock's lap, placing both of his hands to either side of his father's collarbone as he stood up on the detective's thighs. He stretched up, trying to whisper in Sherlock's ear.

A small smile playing on his lips, the detective bent down, allowing easier access for the little boy. "Yes, Hamish?" he murmured, splaying his fingers across his son's back so he wouldn't fall backwards, seeing as the little boy was wobbling considerably. He paused, listening intently as Hamish whispered in his ear. Upon hearing his son's request, Sherlock felt a warmth run across his chest. "Of course," he whispered, pulling back to gaze fondly at the little boy.

The corner of his lips twitching up into a smile, the detective stood up, placing Hamish on the ground. That familiar fluttering in his chest, he bent down, taking the little boy's chubby hand in his own, before turning back to John, eyebrows raised as he took a breath. "Hamish has requested that we open his gift later tonight, but he would prefer I open it alone with him." Despite usually becoming embarrassed at showing affection around others, Sherlock couldn't help but smile down at the little boy holding his hand, not minding whether John or Mrs. Hudson saw.

"Ah," the doctor sighed quietly, gazing fondly at his flat mates. "Of course." Smiling, he knelt down on one knee so he was eye level with Hamish. "Here you go," he whispered, passing the small gift to the little boy.

"Ta, John," Hamish replied quietly, releasing Sherlock's hand to take the gift from the doctor. Smiling, he leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to John's cheek. "Ta," he thanked again.

"You're most certainly welcome," John murmured in reply, gently ruffling the small boy's curls. "Now why don't you go put that somewhere safe, hmm?"

Hamish thought for a moment, looking up at Sherlock with questioning eyes as he carefully held the gift between both of his chubby hands. The detective peered back down, giving his son a reassuring smile. "Maybe on my bed?" he suggested quietly, gently placing his hand on the little boy's back.

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy." Grinning widely, Hamish clutched the present close to his chest, and hurried forward, toddling out of the kitchen.

Sherlock chuckled, gazing after the little boy. He took a deep breath, smiling as he heard Hamish start to mutter unhappily to himself in the other room, clearly displeased with something.

"Do you need help, Hamish?" he called.

"No, Daddy?" the little boy called back, though it sounded more like a question than a statement.

"I've got it," Mrs. Hudson chuckled, quickly hurrying out of the kitchen.

Knowing what was coming, Sherlock took a deep breath, turning his attention to John.

"All right, all right," he said hurriedly upon seeing the smug look on the doctor's face. "Yes, yes, I know. It was not as horrible as I had originally anticipated... _Although_," added hurriedly, "I did not appreciate the book."

John laughed, pleased his gift had had the desired affect. "Good," he chuckled, smiling at his friend. "Well, I'm glad it wasn't as bad as you'd expected... It's sweet Hame wants to open his present alone with you. Of course you already know what it is, so that kind of takes away the—"

"I don't know what his gift is," Sherlock interrupted quietly, staring at the doctor as though he was confused as to how he could think such a thing. "Your presents were obvious, John, and easy to guess because I've know you for so long. However, Hamish is too young to really _pick_ a gift based on past opinions and thoughts. Therefore, I have no idea what he's given me."

John paused, taking a moment to smile at his flat mate. "Right. Of course," he whispered, chuckling to himself. "Well... I think you'll like it."

The detective raised an eyebrow in reply, a small, curious smile playing on his lips.

"'Kay, Daddy!" Hamish called happily, hurrying back into the kitchen with Mrs. Hudson close behind, his hands now free of the tiny gift. He hurried towards Sherlock, but stopped as he saw the small pile of wrapping paper on the ground. Suddenly, a pained expression on his face, the little boy bent down, hurriedly trying to pull all of the discarded paper into his tiny arms.

Confused by his son's efforts, Sherlock quickly glanced at John and Mrs. Hudson before bending down, and picking up the few pieces Hamish had missed. "Hamish?" he asked gently, placing his hand on the little boy's back. "What's wrong? What're you doing with the wrapping paper?"

The little boy froze, staring at his father with wide eyes. Suddenly, as if he was embarrassed, Hamish's eyes fell to the ground, and a sad frown pulled down his features. "No ouch," he replied sadly, gazing down at the paper in his arms.

Understanding, Sherlock paused, gazing with a sad smile at his son. "Hamish, he whispered gently, turning the little boy so they were face to face. "It's okay, Hamish. The wrapping paper isn't hurt. I promise. It doesn't feel things like you and I do. It's not living, so it can't get an ouch like us. It's perfectly fine the way it is... You don't need to feel sad." The detective paused, gazing with fond eyes at the little boy. "But I'll tell you what... It would be lovely if you could make something for me with this," he murmured, rubbing his thumb across Hamish's cheek as he held up the pieces in his hand.

With a quiet sniffle, the little boy gazed up at Sherlock, his mouth pressing together into a sweet smile. "Real, Daddy?" he asked quietly.

"Really. In fact, I'm sure Mrs. Hudson and John would love something as well," he added, giving Hamish a warm smile.

Upon hearing this, the little boy seemed to perk up, the small smile spreading across his face. "'Kay, Daddy, "he said contently, gaze falling upon the large pile of paper in his arms.

"Here," Sherlock said, placing the pieces of wrapping paper back on the floor before. "How about we have a little bit of cake first, and then you can go and make us something, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy." Hamish replied quietly, bending down to delicately place the pile of papers on the ground in front of him.

"Very good," the detective whispered, pulling the little boy into his arms.

Grinning at the situation, Mrs. Hudson hurried forward, and began to cut several pieces of the cake.

"Oh, uh... No thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock declined politely, taking Hamish's piece of cake in his hand as he sat down, placing the little boy on his knee. "Okay," he sighed, grabbing the fork John had just passed him. Wrapping his arm around his son's middle, the detective offered the utensil to Hamish, who eagerly grabbed it from his father's hand.

"Ah. What do we say?" Sherlock prompted.

"Oh! Ta, Nana," Hamish said happily, giving the landlady a small smile. He turned to his father for reassurance before turning back to the cake.

Chucking at the little boy, both John and Mrs. Hudson sat down with their own pieces of cake, munching happily on the sweet treat.

"Daddy," Hamish stated firmly, turning in the detective's lap to offer him a piece of the pastry.

"No, Hamish. Really, I'm okay," Sherlock told him, giving the little boy a reassuring smile, though he knew it wouldn't work.

"No, Daddy. Have."

Chuckling at the persistence of his son, the detective leaned forward, taking the bite Hamish had offered. "Thank you, Hamish," he whispered. "That was lovely."

Now content that his father had at least eaten _some_ of his own birthday cake, the little boy turned back to the treat, careful to scoop each bite onto the fork before delicately placing it in his mouth.

* * *

The rest of the day went by normally. After having placed each sheet of wrapping paper in a very particular spot around the sitting room (all of which were _not_ to be moved), Hamish had created several art projects for both John and Mrs. Hudson as well as many for Sherlock in addition to several drawings as a sort of birthday bonus.

They had eaten Mrs. Hudson's delicious cooking for dinner, during which Hamish had refused to eat his own food unless and until Sherlock had not only gotten, but completely eaten his own serving.

"I swear," John chuckled as they left the kitchen. "If it weren't for him, I'm not sure you would eat at all." The doctor smiled at his flat mate, groaning slightly as he sat down in his chair.

"Please, John, that's ridiculous. Of course I would _eat_... I just wouldn't eat as frequently." Despite his sarcastic tone, the detective smiled lovingly, pressing a quick kiss to Hamish's temple.

* * *

After Mrs. Hudson had retired for the night, the flat mates of 221B were all sat in the living room, staring tiredly into the fire they had started. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, Hamish resting peacefully in his lap, while John was sat in his chair, gazing at the burning fire.

"Come on," Sherlock murmured quietly upon glancing at his watch. Draping Hamish's tired form over his shoulder, the detective slowly stood up off of the couch and began walking to his room. He paused, giving the little boy a moment to say goodnight to John. "Say goodnight," he prompted quietly.

"Nigh' nigh', John," Hamish whispered tiredly, giving a tiny wave of his hand, eyes drooping slightly at the effort.

"G'night, little man," the doctor replied quietly, giving the little boy a warm smile. "Sleep tight, Hame."

Trying to keep his eyes open, Hamish smiled in return, tiredly wrapping his arms around his father's neck. "I'll be back in a moment," the detective added, turning back to glance at his flatmate.

Turning back to his room, and sensing his son's tiredness, Sherlock placed his hand on the little boy's back, bouncing slightly as he continued to make his way back to his room.

Shutting the door behind him, the detective glided over to his bed, pausing as he saw a tiny gift sitting in the middle of the sheets.

"Oh. Right... Hamish?" he asked quietly, sitting down on the bed, and moving the little boy onto his lap. "Your present is still here. Do you want to open it now or just wait until tomorrow?"

"Oh," Hamish said, eyebrows pulling together as he remembered the gift. "'Ow 'ease, Daddy?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied fondly, brushing the back of his fingers across Hamish's forehead. Moving so he was leaning against the headboard, the detective reached down, grabbing the gift in his slender fingers. "Okay," he sighed, wrapping his arm around around the little boy's body.

Sighing contently, and now more alert with the small amount of excitement coursing through his body, Hamish settled himself closer to Sherlock's body, leaning against the detective's torso. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered contently, giving his father a small nod of his head.

Sherlock smiled back before turning his attention to the small gift in his hand. Careful not to tear too much of the wrapping paper, as it still upset Hamish, the detective slowly peeled away the dark blue paper, stopping as he finally saw what it was for the first.

In Sherlock's hands was a small magnifying glass, almost identical to the one he had now, just a little bigger, and instead of the lens popping out to the side, with the click of a button, it would shoot out the top. A smile turning up the corners of his lips, the detective clicked the button on the side the reveal the lens. Unable to contain his happiness, Sherlock grinned, turning to gaze down at his son with a loving gaze.

"You picked this for me?" he whispered, thumb absentmindedly running across the smooth glass.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish replied quietly, staring up at the detective with wide, happy eyes. "Like?"

Sherlock uttered something between a sob and a chuckle. "I love it," he whispered, eyes stinging with the feel of tears. He bent down, clutching the magnifying glass in his hand, and wrapped his arms around Hamish's small body, pressing him close to his chest.

"Thank you," he murmured, pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the little boy's head. "Thank you very much, Hamish... This is wonderful. You're wonderful."

Clearly pleased Sherlock liked his gift so much, Hamish relaxed in his father's arms, eyes fluttering shut. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered against the detective's shirt, clutching a fistful of the fabric in his chubby hand.

"I love you, too, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, pressing another loving kiss to Hamish's curls. "Very much. And this," he paused, leaning back so he could see his son's face and held up the gift, "means more to me than you can possibly know."

"Best?" Hamish asked tiredly, blinking slowly as he heard his father's deep, baritone laugh.

"No..." Sherlock whispered quietly, gazing down at his son with loving eyes. Taking a deep breath, he slowly rolled off of the bed, turning back to gently set Hamish, who looked thoroughly confused, under the covers. Placing one hand to the side of his son's head, Sherlock leaned down towards the bed, hovering over his son's small form. "Though I do love this," he murmured, "it's certainly not the best birthday gift." Upon hearing this, Hamish frowned, tears welling in his eyes. "What, Daddy?" he asked sadly. "No Daddy like..."

"No," Sherlock chuckled gently, brushing his fingertips over the little boy's cheek. "It's just, the best birthday gift anyone could have ever given me... Is you, Hamish..."

The little boy paused, staring up at his father with wide eyes.

"Hame best?" he whispered in amazement.

"Yes... Always," Sherlock replied gently, lips turned up in a small, loving smile. "You're the best thing that's happened to me, Hamish. And I want you to know that. You're the best thing I could have ever gotten."

Hamish smiled, staring up at his father. "Daddy," he sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned into Sherlock's touch. "Daddy best," he whispered, keeping his eyes closed.

"I'm the best for you, too?" the detective murmured, brushing his thumb over Hamish's cheek.

"'Es, Daddy... Best Daddy Hame." A tired smile on his face, Hamish opened his eyes to stare contently at his father. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered, reaching up to press one of his hands to the detective's cheek.

Feeling an uncontrollable amount of happiness, Sherlock closed his eyes, smiling into his son's touch. He took little notice as a single, warm tear slid free, gliding down his cheek.

"Thank you, Hamish," he murmured, reaching up to wrap his slender fingers around his son's chubby hand. Keeping his eyes closed, he pressed a tender kiss to Hamish's fingers, allowing them to rest against his lips. "Goodnight," he whispered eventually, keeping Hamish's hand wrapped safely in his own.

"'Ove, Daddy," Hamish replied, his hand already beginning to go limp in the detective's grasp.

"Sleep well," the detective added, watching with a loving gaze as Hamish's eyes slowly slid shut, the weight of his head completely resting in his hand.

Smiling lovingly, Sherlock slowly lowered his hand, moving so the little boy's head was resting against the bed. Then, after pressing another gentle kiss to his son's fingers, the detective placed Hamish's arm back on the bed, tucking it under the duvet. He looked around, finding the little boy's gift, though he couldn't recall having ever set it down, and turned back to the sleeping boy. Magnifying glass in hand, he bent down, pressing a soft, loving kiss to Hamish's temple and then turned back to the doorway. He paused upon seeing his coat hanging on the hook.

Smiling to himself, with one swift move, Sherlock pulled his old magnifying glass out of one of the pockets. Hand resting on the doorknob, the detective turned back, smiling lovingly at Hamish's sleeping form. "Goodnight," he whispered, slipping the new magnifying glass into the pocket, before hurrying out the door.


	26. Chapter Twenty-Six: Even Thunderstorms

**Hey guys! I just wanted to thank you all so much for the wonderful feedback on the last chapter! You all are wonderful and so lovely! =) Sorry for the wait on this one, by the way! (This week has been absolutely crazy!) If all goes well, I plan to make up for it by updating (with a longer chapter) on Saturday. =) Thank you so much guys! Have a great rest of your week! **

**P.S. (As usual, please ignore the mistakes! I've had no time to go back and fix them! Will do as soon as possible. Thanks!)**

Chapter Twenty-Six: Even Thunderstorms

"No," Sherlock warned, raising an eyebrow at Hamish. "Hamish, we don't splash in the—"

"Oops. Hame so'ey, Daddy," the little boy said feebly, look anywhere but his father's eyes as he quickly shoved his hands back under the water.

"Mmm-hmm," the detective hummed sarcastically, fixing the little boy with a stern stare. "It's okay. But no more splashing, all right?"

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish exclaimed happily, a large grin spreading across his face. He continued to play with the bubbles, crashing his toys through them as if they were waves. Sherlock watched him with fond eyes, seated cross-legged on the floor of the bathroom, a towel already in hand.

"Daddy some?" the little boy asked happily, extending a chubby hands full of suds to the detective.

"Sure," Sherlock chuckled, leaning forward to allow his son to delicately place the bubbles on the tip of his nose.

"Good, Daddy," Hamish said proudly, giving a little nod of his head. "Turn." A small smile gracing his lips, the little boy leaned forward, gripping to the edge of the tub and squeezed his eyes shut in preparation.

"My turn, hmm?" Sherlock asked, scooping a small pile of foam into his hand. With a quiet exclamation, he quickly plopped the suds onto Hamish's own nose, playfully wiping the rest across his wet curls.

The little boy giggled, opening his eyes to grin at Sherlock.

The detective quickly finished washing his son's small body, taking extra time to tickle the little boy's wet stomach as he washed him off.

"No 'ease, Daddy!" Hamish laughed as he was gentle lifted out of the tub by his father.

"What? No tickling?" Sherlock exclaimed incredulously, wrapping the towel around his son's wet body. He quickly rubbed the fabric over Hamish's curly hair, soaking up most of the remaining water.

"No, Daddy," the little boy laughed, leaning forward to lean his head against Sherlock's shoulder as he snuggled deeply into both the towel and his father's arms.

"No? Well... I suppose, if you insist..." The detective smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to Hamish's cheek as he quickly dried the little boy off.

"Ohh," he sighed, placing the little boy on the ground. "There we go. Hold on, let me grab a nappy." Smiling to himself, Sherlock turned around, making his way to the changing station that was now in his room. He quickly opened one of the drawers, pulling out a nappy and then turned back, facing Hamish once again. He paused, nappy still in hand as he saw the little boy, who was now seated on the floor, trying to tug his purple button-up on, brows pulled together in concentration, lip protruding as he tried to maneuver the fabric over his head.

Smiling lovingly, Sherlock stopped, silently placing the nappy on the bed. He slowly lowered himself to the ground, watching with fond eyes as his son managed to slip the fabric over his head.

"Daddy!" he cried triumphantly, throwing his arms into the air as he stood up. Sherlock's shirt fell loosely to the ground, swamping his entire body. The little boy stopped, freezing when he noticed his father was not in front of him, as he had thought.

"Daddy?" he called, trying to hurry forward, but tripping over the fabric of the detective's shirt.

"Hamish," Sherlock called gently, a warm smile playing on his lips.

"Oh," the little boy sighed in relief upon seeing his father. He turned around, rushing forward towards the detective.

"Look, Daddy!" he said proudly, trying to hold his arms out. "Hame Daddy!" He grinned, clearly pleased with himself. Unable to contain his excitement, the little boy surged forward, trying to wrap his arms around his father's neck.

Chuckling contently, Sherlock pulled the little boy into his arms, placing one hand on the back of his son's head, the other on his back.

"Why, you're just like me now, aren't you?" he chuckled, gently moving away some of the little boy's curls that had fallen in his face.

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish giggled, as the shirt started to fall off of his tiny shoulders.

"Here," Sherlock chuckled, gently pulling his shirt off of Hamish's small body. "How about we get a nappy on, hmm?"

"'Kay, Daddy," the little boy replied happily, giving his father a quick nod of his head. Completely naked, he hurried back over to the discarded towel, attempting to wrap it around his body.

Sherlock chuckled after the little boy, standing back up off the floor. He silently hovered over his son, watching lovingly as Hamish finally managed to "wrap" the towel around his body, though it was only draped over one of his shoulders.

"Very good job, Hamish," the detective praised, bending down to pick the little boy up.

"No 'ease, Daddy," Hamish said firmly, tapping at the hand Sherlock had wrapped around his middle. "Hame do. 'Es 'ease. Hame do." Smiling, as if to reassure his father, and desperately trying not to let the towel slip off of his shoulders, Hamish made his way to the bed. With a tiny grunt of effort, he managed to climb onto the strip of wood, though the towel quickly fell from his tiny body.

Chuckling at his son, Sherlock bent down, picking up the fallen fabric and, with a loving smile, placed his hand under Hamish's bare bottom, giving him a gentle push onto the bed.

Upon realizing he had actually gotten onto the bed himself, the little boy gasped, and quickly turned, grinning at his father, hands thrown up in a triumphant pose.

"Hame do!" he called, reaching towards the detective.

"Yes you did!" Sherlock praised, hurrying forward to give Hamish another tight hug. "You're becoming such a big boy!" Grinning warmly at his son, the detective quickly leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to the little boy's nose.

Giggling sweetly, and keeping one hand on Sherlock's arm, Hamish opened his eyes, and started to lean in, about to mimic his father. He stopped though, face pulling together into a tiny frown as he saw that there were still some suds on the detective's nose.

"Daddy?" he asked quietly, pointing to the towel in his father's hand.

Confused as to his son's intentions, Sherlock slowly lifted his hand, placing the soft fabric in the little boy's tiny hands.

"Hamish," he began, mimicking his son's almost confused expression. "What are you want—" The detective stopped, freezing as Hamish gently took the towel between his chubby hands, pressing the fabric to his nose. Understanding, Sherlock stopped, allowing his son to tenderly wipe away the bubbles on his nose. He couldn't help but smile at the absolutely serious look on Hamish's face, watching with a tender gaze as the little boy slowly moved the towel across his skin, the fabric clutched between his chubby fingers.

Deciding that the towel was not working well enough for him, Hamish hummed to himself and gently placed the fabric on the bed. A tender look on his face, the little boy turned back to his father, and started to gently brush his chubby fingers over the detective's skin, wiping away all of the tiny, dried circles of suds that were scattered across his skin.

Sherlock smiled lovingly, staring intently at Hamish as the little boy gently brushed his tiny fingers across his skin.

A content smile pulling up the corners of his lips, Sherlock took a moment to study his son's beautiful features, suddenly feeling breathless as he stared into Hamish's impossibly deep green eyes, felt his chubby fingers against his cheeks. The detective couldn't help but feel his heart skip a beat in his chest as he realized Hamish had the same look on his face, that _he _had whenever he was focusing intently on a case.

"Oh," he sighed, so quietly it went unnoticed by Hamish. He felt a strange mixture of pride and bittersweet sadness swell in his chest. "Hamish," he whispered quietly, brushing the back of his knuckles across the little boy's cheek.

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish whispered back, his hand pausing, in the hollow below Sherlock's cheekbone. His other hand slowly slid down, resting against the detective's neck.

Sherlock smiled, eyes filled with love as he stared at the little boy in front of him. "Nothing," he murmured warmly, running the tips of his fingers up and down his son's smooth back.

"'Kay, Daddy?" Hamish asked, seeing the look on his father's face.

Sherlock smiled, leaning in to place a tender kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Yes, Hamish," he murmured, smiling even more as he felt Hamish's fingers curl against his skin. "I'm okay... I just love you... That's all."

"Oh," the little boy sighed, leaning forward to rest his head against his father's cheek. "Good, Daddy... Hame 'ove."

"I'm glad you love me, too," the detective murmured, placing his hand to the back as he smiled against Hamish's curls. "Come on then," he chuckled, taking a deep breath as he tried to regain his breathing. "Let's get ready for bed."

"Good, Daddy. Seepy."

"You're sleepy?" Sherlock chuckled, laying Hamish's tiny form on the bed.

"'Es, Daddy. Da'ey seepy?" he yawned, pressing a tiny fist to his eyes.

"Not as tired as you seem to be," the detective laughed, quickly finishing the nappy. "Ohh," he sighed dramatically, lifting his son's tired form into his arms. He gently bounced the little boy in his arms. "Do you want to sleep in my bed tonight?" he murmured.

Hamish thought for a moment, pressing his face into Sherlock's shoulder as contemplated. "Daddy bed," he said finally, yawning again against the detective's skin.

"All right... There we go," he sighed, slowly lowering Hamish's tired form onto his bed. He gently pulled the covers up around his son's tiny body, making sure to grab the little boy's blanket out of his cot. "All set?" he murmured, tucking the blanket under the sheets as he placed a tender hand to Hamish's cheek.

"Mmm," Hamish hummed in response, eyes already sliding shut as he settled into the warmth and comfort of his touch, with blanket in hand.

"Good," Sherlock murmured, bending down to press a quick kiss to the little boy's brow. "Goodnight."

* * *

John returned home late from a date with Mary to find Sherlock in the sitting room, wearing his blue dressing gown, his chest bare, with the doctor's laptop resting in his lap, still dripping from the thunderstorm raging outside.

"Is that my—"

"Yes, John. It's your computer." The detective stopped what he was doing, taking a moment to give his flat mate a smug look. "You should just expect it by now."

"Of course," John sighed, squaring his jaw as he tossed his coat over his chair. "Can't say that I'm truly _surprised_ that—"

"Daddy?" came a tiny sniffle. Case instantly forgotten, Sherlock glanced to his doorway to see Hamish, face red from crying, with his blanket clutched tightly to his bare chest. "Hamish?" he exclaimed, hurrying towards the little boy. "What's wrong?" he asked frantically, pulling the crying boy into his arms.

"L-loud stormy," Hamish cried, pressing his face into his father's robed shoulder. "Hame had scared."

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, running a soothing hand up and down the little boy's back. "Would you like to stay out here with me and John until the storm passes?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. Hame wan-want Da'ey make stormy nigh' nigh'," Hamish cried sadly, jumping as a loud clap of thunder shook the decorations on the walls. "Daddy," he groaned, dropping the blanket so he could wrap his arms around Sherlock's neck.

"Hamish," the detective soothed, moving down to sit on the couch. "It's okay," he whispered, gently rocking back and forth. "It's just thunder... It can't hurt you, I promise."

"Mun'un'der loud and scared," the little boy whispered, pressing his face against Sherlock's collarbone.

"Yes... I know," the detective whispered sadly. "It's loud and scary, isn't it?" He felt Hamish nod feebly against his chest, whimpering as another loud crack echoed outside.

"Shh, it's okay, Hamish... I'm right here," Sherlock murmured, pressing his son's tiny body close to his bare chest. "How about we try to lay down, hmm?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy."

With Hamish's chubby arms still wrapped firmly around his neck, Sherlock leaned back on the couch, carefully moving the little boy with him, and stretched out along the couch. He glanced at John, who shot him a sympathetic look.

"See?" Sherlock murmured, running his fingers over Hamish's auburn curls. "It's okay... I've got you now... Shh."

"Make nigh' nigh'?" Hamish asked hopefully, sniffling as a few tears slid down his face. With a sad smile, Sherlock reached down, tenderly rubbing away the tears. He let his hand remain on the side of the little boy's face. "I'm sorry," he apologized gently. "But I'm afraid I can't make the storm go night night... I wish I could... But it's okay now, Hamish... You have nothing to worry about. I've got you."

Relaxing a little at Sherlock's words and now that he was safe in his father's embrace, Hamish closed his eyes, cuddling against the detective's bare skin. He shivered slightly as another clap of thunder shook the walls.

"Are you cold?" Sherlock asked, already pulling his robe up over Hamish's bare body, subconsciously pressing the tiny boy closer to his warmer skin.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish answered sadly, nodding against the detective's chest. "An' had scared..."

"I'm sorry, Hamish... I'll try to make the 'scared' go away as best I can, okay?"

"'Kay, Daddy... Keep Hame safe?" the little boy asked hopefully, pulling away from Sherlock's chest so he could gaze at his father.

The detective paused for a moment, running his thumb over Hamish's eyebrow. The little boy blinked slowly with the gentle movement, hands curling against his father's skin. "Always," Sherlock murmured eventually, leaning down to press a tender kiss to his son's forehead. "I'll always keep you safe, Hamish... Even from the thunderstorms." The detective smiled sadly at the little boy, desperately wanting to take away his fear.

With a sad sigh, Hamish scooted himself forward, draping his arms over the detective's shoulders as he snuggled against Sherlock's neck. "Daddy safe," he whispered, absentmindedly twirling a lock of his father's hair between his fingers as his eyes began to flutter shut. "Daddy have Hame safe."

Sherlock smiled, tucking Hamish's head under his chin as the little boy started to fall asleep again, his breaths becoming deeper and quick as he fought to stay away. "Always..." he murmured. "Daddy will always keep you safe, Hamish."

"Mmm," Hamish sighed in response, eye sliding shut. With a lock of his father's hair still clutched in his hand, the little boy fell asleep, not even flinching with the next clap of thunder.

Sherlock smiled, running the tips of his fingers over Hamish's silky curls. "Thunderstorms," he chuckled lovingly, watching the gentle rise and fall of his son's breaths. "Even from thunderstorms, Hamish."


	27. Chapter Twenty-Seven: Dp'ted, Daddy?

**Hey guys! Sorry for not updating early this morning; I know it's find of weird to update in like the middle of the day, but I'd promised I would have this chapter up today, so here it is! Just a little late. =) Thanks for all of your support guys! It means the world! Have a great weekend! =)**

Chapter Twenty-Seven: Dp'ted, Daddy?

Sherlock had awoken at some point during the night, as Hamish shifted against his chest, whimpering in his sleep from the storm.

"Shh," he whispered quietly, running a soothing hand up and down the little boy's back. "It's okay. I'm right here." With another tiny moan, Hamish gripped onto the detective's shirt, clutching the fabric between his tiny fingers.

"Hamish," Sherlock whispered in a comforting voice, slowly rolling off of the couch. "Shh... It's all right." Hugging his son close to his chest, the detective began to slowly pace around the flat, gently bouncing Hamish up and down as he walked, rubbing a comforting hand over the little boy's smooth skin.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed in his sleep, body going limp as he relaxed once again, soothed by the gentle rocking and the sound of his father's voice.

"That's it," Sherlock murmured slowly upon feeling the little boy's weight lean against him as he relaxed. A small, loving smile pulling at his lips, the detective bent down, pressing a tender kiss to Hamish's auburn curls. "It's okay now."

Smiling as he felt Hamish's hand release his shirt, moving to rest in the gap at the base of his neck, Sherlock slowly meandered into his room, pulling the little boy close as he laid down on the bed.

"There we go," he murmured lovingly, rolling onto his side and gently placing Hamish's sleeping form next to him. The detective was about to try and sleep, himself, when he heard Hamish murmur something in his sleep. Pausing, Sherlock sat up, staring at his son's face, smiling fondly when he saw that Hamish was dreaming. Realizing it had never occurred to him that the little boy could be having a _good_ dream, Sherlock decided to abandon the idea of sleeping, opting to stay up and watch his son as he slept. The detective couldn't help but feel that warm fluttering in his chest as he saw a tiny, content smile spread across Hamish's face. "Hmm," the little boy hummed, eyes fluttering as he slept.

Smiling wistfully, Sherlock watched in mild wonder as his son dreamt, gazing at the small smile gracing the little boy's lips. With incredibly gentle hands, the detective scooted closer to the little boy's sleeping form and started to run his fingertips over Hamish's face.

In response to his father's touch, the little boy sighed happily, murmuring to himself as he slept.

"Mmmda," he breathed, one hand reaching towards the detective.

"Shh," Sherlock murmured tenderly, wrapping his fingers around Hamish's tiny hand and pulling the chubby fingers to his lips. "Right here..."

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish sighed in response, hand curling in the detective's.

A delighted smile tugging at his lips, Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to the little boy's fingers, relaxing into the bed as he stared fondly at Hamish.

* * *

Sherlock spent the rest of the night watching his son's sweet face as he dreamed, using his free hand to gently play with Hamish's curls as the the little boy's tiny hand was wrapped safely in his own.

It was nearly nine o'clock by the time Hamish shifted in his sleep, brows pulling together in tiredness as he awoke.

"Good morning, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, brushing his fingers over the little boy's forehead.

"Morn', Daddy," the little boy yawned, frowning as he tried to sit up.

"Tired?" the detective chuckled, sitting himself up in the bed as he pulled Hamish into his lap.

"Mmm-hmm," the little boy agreed, nodding his head as he pressed his face into the space at the base of Sherlock's neck.

"I know," the detective smiled, gently patting his son's bottom. "You were dreaming last night," he murmured, running a hand through the little boy's curls.

"What, Daddy? What 'eam?" Hamish asked quizzically, gazing up at his father from where he was resting.

"Dream," Sherlock corrected, chuckling down at the little boy. "And a dream is a series of images you see during your sleep. Whatever _you_ were dreaming about, it made you giggle!" Grinning at his son, the detective quickly tickled Hamish's stomach, brushing his fingertips over his son's soft skin.

"Daddy," Hamish laughed, shoving his father's hands away as he giggled. "'Ease no tick, Daddy?" he asked sweetly, pressing his hands to Sherlock's chest as he sat back in the detective's lap.

"Oh, if you _insist_," Sherlock sighed dramatcially, throwing his hands up in mock 'surrender.'

"Good, Daddy," Hamish said contently, giving the detective a gentle pat of acknowledgement. "And Hame 'eam at T'mas!" he declared happily, bouncing in his father's lap.

"Ahh," Sherlock sighed happily, giving his son a quick wink, which only resulted in more giggling. "Thomas the Train. I should have known."

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish agreed, smiling up at his father as he leaned forward, resting his head against Sherlock's chest.

"Quite right," the detective rumbled, chuckling down at the little boy.

Both father and son jumped as a loud clap of thunder shook the walls of the tiny flat.

"Daddy!" Hamish cried, pressing his tiny form into the detective's chest, gripping tightly onto his shirt.

"Shh," Sherlock chuckled, laughing at his own fright. "It's okay, Hamish. It's just thunder..."

"Hame no like mun'un'der," the little boy mumbled, frowning against his father's skin.

"I know you don't... Here. Try and think of it this way." Hoping to comfort his son in some way, Sherlock quickly scooted off the bed, grabbing his robe and wrapping it around him as he made his way into the sitting room, Hamish resting on his hip.

The little boy winced slightly at having been exposed suddenly to the bright light of the room, leaning his head against Sherlock's shoulder as the detective moved to the window.

"Hamish?" he murmured, pointing the glass as rain droplets quickly slid down the smooth surface.

"'Es, Daddy?" the little boy whispered, turning his attention to the window. He remained leaning against Sherlock's shoulder, gazing out at the dreary day.

"Remember how, a long time ago, we saw that streak of lightning in the sky, _just_ by the flat, and you thought it was beautiful?" the detective asked slowly, swaying back and forth as he gazed down at Hamish.

The little boy thought for a moment, absentmindedly playing with his father's curls as he pondered. "'Es, Daddy," he whispered eventually, giving a firm nod of his head.

"Good," Sherlock whispered, giving Hamish an encouraging smile. "Well, the big flashes that you see... Those are just the pretty streaks of lightning. Understand?"

"Oh... 'Es, Daddy," the little boy sighed in realization, staring up at his father as he spoke with wide, eager eyes.

"Well, we know that light travels faster than... Do you remember, Hamish?"

"Mound!" the little boy cried triumphantly, throwing a chubby arm into the air.

Sherlock beamed down at his son, subconsciously pulling him closer. "Excellent! Sound," he praised, pressing a soft kiss to the little boy's forehead. "So we know that light travels faster than sound... That means when lightning strikes the ground, we won't hear it until much later, depending on how far away the bolt was and where it hit the ground, as well as several other factors including how—Oops! Sorry, Hamish. Rambling again," the detective murmured upon seeing how overwhelmed the little boy looked. He quickly brushed the back of his knuckles over Hamish's cheek. "What I'm trying to say is... Thunder... Is just the delayed sound of when a lightning bolt hits the ground... See? It's nothing to be afraid of; it can't hurt you. Thunder is merely sound traveling slower than the light that created it in the first place."

"Ohh," Hamish sighed, eyes widening in understanding as he stared out of the window. "So... No mun'un'der scared, Daddy?" he asked quietly, turning his attention back to the detective.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile. "No," he whispered, rubbing the palm of his hand up and down Hamish's bare back. "The thunder isn't scary... It's just sound."

"Hmm... Good, Daddy," Hamish sighed, leaning forward again to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder. "Ta, Daddy."

"Of course," the detective murmured, pressing a kiss to the little boy's curls. "You're so clever..." he added wistfully, staring at his son's beautiful features.

"'Es, Daddy... Umm... Hame have anda'ba'nanana?" he asked distractedly, frowning down at his stomach.

Sherlock grinned down at the little boy in his arms, chuckling at his request. "Yes, of course. We can go get you a banana... Sorry I rambled again," he murmured, hurrying into the kitchen.

"'Kay, Daddy," Hamish giggled as the detective gently placed him on the ground. "Hame like. Daddy speak bat'ma'u'ful."

Sherlock paused, gazing down at his son. "You think it's beautiful when I speak?" he whispered incredulously, an overwhelming sensation of love swelling in his chest.

"...'Es, Daddy," Hamish answered curiously, staring at his father with a look that clearly said: _Duh, Daddy._

Sherlock laughed out loud, kneeling down to wrap his arms around Hamish's small body. "Brilliant," he murmured into his son's curls. "You're just... _Brilliant, _Hamish... And I do love you so much for it."

"Hmm... An' Hame 'ove Daddy," the little boy whispered back, going on tiptoe so he could wrap his chubby arms around the detective's neck. Sherlock smiled against Hamish's silky hair, taking a deep breath as he gave the little boy a gentle squeeze. "Thank you, Hamish," he breathed, placing his hand to the back of the little boy's neck as he pressed a tender kiss to his son's brow. "Mmm..." Giving Hamish a warm smile, Sherlock quickly pressed the little boy closer before leaning back and releasing him. "Banana... Right. Good." Smiling fondly as he watched his son toddle away into the living room, the detective turned around, quickly preparing breakfast for the little boy.

* * *

"Very good, Hamish! Now can you tell me where... My eyes are?"

Sherlock was lying on his back in the sitting room, Hamish hovering over him as they practiced naming and finding body parts.

"Eyes, Daddy?" the little boy asked, bending over his father's face as he toddled around on his chubby legs.

"Yes, Hamish. Can you show me where my eyes are?"

Hamish thought for a moment, bending close to the detective's face; the tips of his curly hair brushed against Sherlock's cheek as he gazed at his father's face. "Eyes!" he called eventually, pressing both of his chubby hands over the detective's eyes.

"Very good," Sherlock chuckled, reaching up to give the little boy an affectionate pat on the back. He blinked under Hamish's fingers smiling as he felt his son bend down to press a tiny kiss to his forehead. "Mmm... Thank you, Hamish," he hummed.

"N'xt, Daddy!"

"All right... How about my tummy? Show me where my tummy is."

"Tum'ny, Daddy?"

"Yes."

"Mmm... 'Kay, Daddy." A determined look in his eyes, Hamish pulled away from Sherlock's face, removing his hands from the detective's eyes. With a tiny gasp, he grinned and toddled down to Sherlock's middle. "Tum'ny!" he called excitedly, gently collapsing onto the detective's stomach.

"Oh! Yes," Sherlock chuckled, gazing down as the little boy curled up on his middle. Smiling at his son, the detective placed a gentle hand on the little boy's back. Though Hamish was nearly seventeen months old, he was still very tiny for his age and could fit comfortably on Sherlock's chest and stomach.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked quietly as he slowly slid off the detective's stomach.

"Yes?" Sherlock chuckled, reaching up to brush some of the little boy's curly hair off of his forehead.

"Hame toes?" he asked, smiling sweetly at his father.

"You want me to find your toes?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy. Daddy Hame toes."

"All right," Sherlock chuckled, grinning at his son as he sat up. "Hmm... Toes... Where would Hamish's toes be?"

Hamish giggled, pressing his chubby fingers to his mouth in an effort to muffle his laughs. "Daddy," he sighed, smiling at his father.

Suppressing his own smile, Sherlock pulled Hamish into his arms and then, in one swift move, gently laid him on the floor. "Well," he sighed, sitting on his knees as he leaned forward, hovering over his son's small body. He playfully wrapped his fingers around each of the little boy's hands, pulling them to his face as he 'thought.' "Toes... Toes... Are they... Right here?" Grinning, Sherlock bent down, pressing a ticklish kiss to Hamish's bare stomach.

"No, Daddy!" he laughed, squirming as the detective tickled his stomach.

"No?" Sherlock asked incredulously, gazing down at the little boy with an amazed expression. "Well... If your toes aren't there... I conclude they're down here!" Releasing Hamish's fingers, the detective quickly scooted back, wrapping his hands around the little boy's feet. "Here?" he asked playfully, as his thumb quickly skimmed over the smooth skin.

"'Es, Daddy! Hame toes! No 'ease tick?"

"No tickling? Are you sure?" Grinning lovingly at his son, Sherlock quickly bent down, pressing his lips to Hamish's tiny toes, pretending to 'eat' them.

"No! No 'ease, Daddy! Hame ask!" the little boy laughed, pressing his chubby hands to the detective's face in an effort to shove him away.

"Well I know you _asked_," Sherlock sighed, stopping his stream of kisses to smile up at Hamish. "But I just couldn't resist."

"Hmm," the little boy sighed, toes curling in his father's fingers as he caught his breath. "Silly, Daddy."

"Absolutely," he hummed, pressing one last, tender kiss to the bottom of Hamish's tiny feet.

"N'xt, Daddy?"

Sherlock smiled down at the little boy with an affectionate gaze. "Of course," he murmured, leaning forward to press another quick kiss to Hamish's hair.

* * *

After spending the rest of the day lounging around the house, Sherlock and Hamish were curled up on the couch, watching a type of documentary on fish, which were, undoubtedly, Hamish's favorite animals.

Sherlock was absentmindedly rubbing circles over his son's hand as he held the little boy close, barely taking notice as the light quickly slipped away outside.

The program quickly ended with the narrator telling the audience: "And so, in the end, the dolphin was returned safely to her family." Hamish smiled for a moment, humming contently with the happy ending of the program.

Eyelids drooping slightly, he leaned into Sherlock's arm, staring at the screen as he watched the various types of sea animals scrolling through the credits. Suddenly, though, as if remembering something, the little boy's eyebrows pulled together, and he frowned.

"Daddy?" he asked quietly, tugging at the detective's fingers.

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Umm... Daddy, what fam'ry?"

Sherlock paused, not expecting his son to ask this question. Taking a deep breath, he shifted on the couch, pulling Hamish onto his lap and leaning back so he could see his face.

"Hamish," he began softly, gazing into the little boy's deep green eyes. "A family is a group of people who love each other very much... A family is also anyone who is related by blood, but the word really implies the presence of love. Think you understand?"

Hamish paused for a moment, leaning forward to rest his head against Sherlock's shoulder as he thought. "'Es, Daddy... Daddy fam'wrly?"

"Do _I_ have a family?" the detective murmured, gently twirling some of his son's hair between his fingers.

"'Es, Daddy..."

"_You're_ my family," Sherlock murmured simply, placing a tender hand on the little boy's back.

"Daddy no Mummy an' Daddy fam'wrly?"

Sherlock gazed down at Hamish, a sad smile on his lips. "No, Hamish... My Mummy and Daddy are not quite like us. They were never very kind or loving towards me... So we don't really love each other in the same way that you and I love each other. Understand?"

"Sad, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, pulling away from the detective's shoulder. Bottom lip quivering, he placed both of his chubby hands to Sherlock's collarbone, pulling himself into a standing position.

"Oh, Hamish," the detective sighed sadly as he stared into his son's watery eyes. "No... I'm not sad anymore. Because now I _have_ a family. I have you. And I wouldn't trade that for the world... Please don't cry." With gentle fingers, Sherlock brushed his knuckles just under Hamish's eyes, wiping away a tear that had slid free. "I don't want you to be sad for me..." he murmured, allowing his thumb to rest against the little boy's smooth cheek.

"No sad, Daddy?" Hamish whispered, leaning into his father's gentle touch.

"No," Sherlock whispered, giving his son a reassuring smile. "I'm not sad anymore, Hamish."

Staring into his father's grey eyes, Hamish leaned forward, resting his head against Sherlock's cheek. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered quietly, grabbing onto the collar of the detective's shirt. "Daddy sad, Hame sad."

Sherlock stared down at Hamish, the burning feeling of tears stinging his eyes. "Hamish," he whispered, leaning down to lay his head on top of his son's. "Listen... I don't ever want you to be sad for me, all right? I want you to be happy, and I _never_ want you to feel sadness just because I do... Can you promise me that?"

"... 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish whispered against Sherlock's skin. "Prom'kiss."

Despite the sadness he felt, the detective couldn't help but smile. "Thank you," he murmured, pressing his lips to Hamish's curls in a loving kiss. "I love you very much."

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish sighed, nodding against his father's cheek. "Hame 'ove Daddy... Much. So Hame fam'wrly, Daddy?"

"Of course," Sherlock said, leaning back so he could see the little boy's face. "You have lots of people who love you... There's me, and John... Mycroft, Mary, Uncle Lestrade, Aunt Molly... So you kind of have a big family because there's so many people who love you." Hamish managed a small smile at this. He leaned forward, wrapping his chubby arms around the detective's neck. "Hame 'ove fam'wrly," he whispered, nuzzling into Sherlock's skin. "So... All fam'wrly 'ove... An' Daddy fam'wrly mud?"

"You mean by blood?" Sherlock laughed, running a hand up and down the little boy's back. He froze, however, upon remembering that he and Hamish were _not_ technically related by blood... Suddenly unable to breath, the detective felt a constricting weight crushing down on his chest with the utter sadness of the thought.

Hamish, who had shifted in Sherlock's arms, having sensed his change in demeanor, leaned back, staring worriedly up at his father. "Daddy?" he cried fearfully upon seeing the stricken look on his father's face.

Trying desperately to catch his breath, Sherlock turned his attention to Hamish's face, focusing on his son's beautiful, comforting features. "Yes," he managed to breath eventually. "I'm sorry, Hamish... I just... Had a bit of a fright. I'm all right, though, I promise."

"... 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish said skeptically, staring worriedly at the detective. "So Daddy an' Hame mud?" he continued quietly, gazing warily at his father.

Sherlock paused, staring sadly at the little boy in his arms. Deciding it would be best not to deny the inevitable, the detective took a deep breath to steady himself and stood up off the couch, moving Hamish to his hip.

"Hamish?" he began gently, pulling the little boy closer. "Have you ever heard of the word 'adopted?'" he asked slowly, gently swaying back and forth as he watched Hamish's face, gauging his expressions for a specific reaction.

"Dp'ted, Daddy?" he asked confusedly, one hand clutching onto Sherlock's shirt, the other resting on his shoulder blade, hovering just over the concealed scar. "No, Daddy," he whispered.

Sherlock stared at his son's precious face, and heaved a mournful sigh. "Hamish... Do you remember when I told you that babies grow up their Mummy's tummies before they're born?" A nod. "And do you remember how the baby has a little bit of their Mummy and a little bit of their Daddy in them?" Another nod. "Good," Sherlock whispered, taking a moment to press his lips to his son's temple, bracing himself for what was to come. Taking a shaky breath, he continued. "Well... Sometimes... There are some Mummies and Daddies that either can't have kids or don't want to go through the process... There are lots of factors. Umm... Anyway. Well when that happens, the Mummy and Daddy can go to something called an orphanage. Do you understand so far?"

Hamish nodded slowly, mind working vigorously to try and figure out where this conversation was going. Instinct telling him something bad was coming, his eyes were already beginning to fill with tears and his grip around the detective had tightened.

"Shh," Sherlock soothed, sensing his son's fear. "It's all right," he murmured, pressing Hamish close in a tender hug. "Do you want me to continue?"

After a long paused, Hamish nodded against his father's chest. "Es 'ease, Daddy."

"All right... Orphanages. Well, an orphanage is where children live who don't have any parents... So Mummies and Daddies wanting to be parents can go to an orphanage, and find out which child they wish to take home. When this happens, it's called adopting. So then the Mummy and Daddy will take their new son or daughter home. And they become a family... They love the child just as much as any other family, and they're no different, except that the Mummy and Daddy the child lives with didn't make them... So children who are adopted live with parents who love them... But they're not related by blood. They're connected through their love of each other... Hamish? Are you all right?"

The little boy had started to cry, silently sobbing into Sherlock's shoulder.

"Hamish?" Sherlock cried, now frantic. He urged the little boy to look at him. "Hamish, please tell me what's wrong! Why're you crying?"

Sniffling and with tears streaming down his sweet face, Hamish pulled away from the detective's shoulder, knuckles turning white as he gripped into his father's shirt. "Daddy," he sighed sadly, staring at Sherlock with watery eyes. "Hame dp'ted?" he whispered, bottom lip quivering as he waited for his father's answer.

Suddenly, the detective couldn't stop his own stream of tears. "Yes," he managed to whisper, heart constricting in his chest as Hamish started to cry once again. "I'm so sorry, Hamish," he sobbed, pressing the little boy close. Feeling lightheaded, he quickly sat down on the couch, clutching the little boy close. "I'm so... _So_ sorry... Please, _please_... Don't cry... I love you, Hamish. I still love you very much. And nothing in the world is ever going to change that."

Suddenly, though he was still sniffling madly, Hamish stopped crying. A confused look on his tear-stained face, he gazed up at Sherlock, mouth drawn in a sad frown. "Daddy 'till 'ove Hame?" he asked incredulously, watery eyes wide with hope.

For a moment, Sherlock was frozen, unable to breath as he heard his son's question. "Oh, Hamish," he sighed sadly, understanding now that Hamish was not crying because he was adopted... The little boy was crying because he thought his father would no longer love him anymore. "Hamish, look at me," Sherlock whispered gently, unable to help himself as a few more tears slid free.

"'Ove, Daddy?" was all the little boy asked as he clung desperately to the detective.

"Hamish," Sherlock murmured, placing an incredibly tender hand to the side of the little boy's face. "I need you to listen to me... I will never—_never_—love you any less just because you're adopted. Whether we're related by blood or by love, you are my son. And I love with with _all_ my heart... And nothing is ever going to change that... Please don't cry, Hamish. I love you so much... And you need to know that... I have always loved you and I will _always_ be here to love and protect you. No matter what... So please just... Don't cry," he murmured, unable to help how broken he sounded.

"Daddy?" Hamish whispered sadly, staring at his father's sad, tear-stained face... "No Daddy sad 'ease... Hame 'ove. No care dp'ted. Hame 'ove." With tender hands, the little boy carefully grabbed Sherlock's fingers. "'Isten, Daddy." The detective watched with gentle eyes as Hamish moved his hand, placing it on his tiny chest.

"Heart, Daddy," the little boy whispered, reaching forward to let his own hand rest over his father's heart. "'Ove, Daddy... Have 'ove here..."

Amazed by his son once again, Sherlock closed his eyes, moving his other hand to cover the fingers Hamish had pressed against his chest. He focused on the feeling of his hand resting against the little boy's skin... On the feeling of Hamish's head covering his heart... The feeling of connection between their hearts.

"You're right, Hamish," he finally managed to whisper, opening his eyes to gaze down at the little boy. "We have love in our hearts... I'm so proud of you, Hamish... And I love you very much. With all of my heart." He gave Hamish a reassuring smile, and gently closed his hand around the little boy's fingers, giving them a squeeze. "Come here," he murmured, as another tear quickly slid free... Though this time, it was a tear of happiness.

Eager for his father's embrace, Hamish quickly rushed forward, pressing himself as close to the detective as he could. "Hame 'ove, Daddy... 'Ease no sad?" he whispered against Sherlock's chest, voice muffled by the fabric.

Despite his conflicting emotions, the detective couldn't help but smile. He bent down, pressing an incredibly gentle kiss to Hamish's soft curls. "No, Hamish," he whispered, pulling the little boy even closer. "I'm not sad... And I love you, too. Very much... Thank you, Hamish... Are you all right?" he asked gently, keeping his arms wrapped around his son's tiny body as he leaned back, gazing down into the little boy's face. He felt a wave of relief wash over him as he saw that Hamish was no longer crying anymore, but rather that a small smile had graced his lips.

"'Es, Daddy. Hame good ah'c'se Daddy 'ove."

"You're good because I still love you?" Sherlock murmured, a small smile playing on his lips.

"'Es, Daddy... Hame help Daddy good?" It took the detective a moment to realize that Hamish was referring to the tears still resting on his face. "I would love that, Hamish," he whispered, giving the little boy's hand a gentle squeeze.

"'Kay, Daddy..." Smiling reassuringly at his father, Hamish slowly leaned forward, using Sherlock's shoulders to pull himself into a standing position. "'Ove," he whispered, brushing away some of the tears on one of his father's cheeks. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to the detective's cheekbone. "'Ove, Daddy," he whispered again.

"Hmm," Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes as he felt Hamish's chubby fingers brushing against his skin.

"'Ove, Daddy," the little boy whispered again once he was done with his father's other cheek. Just as before, he leaned forward, pressing a tender kiss to the detective's sharp cheekbone. One of his chubby hands was resting over Sherlock's lips.

The detective smiled against his son's gentle touch, feeling a warmth spread through his body as Hamish pressed a gentle kiss to each of his eyelids and then one last kiss to his lips.

"'Etter, Daddy?" he whispered hopefully, each hand now resting on one of Sherlock's cheekbones.

"Yes," the detective whispered quietly. He slowly opened his eyes, finding comfort as he stared into his son's precious face. "I'm much better now... Thank you so much, Hamish. I love you." A loving smile tugging at his lips, Sherlock leaned down, mimicking his son, and pressed a gentle kiss to each of Hamish's eyelids, that same fluttering dancing through his chest as he felt the little boy's fingers curl against his skin. "I love you," he murmured again, pressing one last kiss to Hamish's lips.

"Good, Daddy," the little boy thanked, keeping his hands against his father's cheeks. Sherlock grinned down at his son, another feeling of relief washing over him. "We're going to be okay..." he whispered, brushing his fingertips over Hamish's cheek.

"'Es, Daddy." And with one last final kiss to the hand his father had over his heart, Hamish quickly fell asleep, resting peacefully in Sherlock's arms with all of the love the detective could have possibly given him.

"Goodnight, Hamish... I love you."


	28. Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Baby

**Hey guys! Just wanted to say I'm sorry, about the extra day on updating, but I had crazy performance schedules on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday, so writing has been pretty hard this week. So sorry about that! This chapter is meant as sort of a cute, fluffy, filler chapter. =) I plan to update on Saturday (hopefully!), but if not, Sunday for sure. =)**

**Thank you so much you guys! You all are wonderful and I don't know what I would do without your lovely reviews and follows and favorites, so really, thank you so much! =) Have a great week, guys! (Again, so sorry for the wait!)**

_**PLEASE READ THE UPDATE: **_

**UPDATE: Okay, so I was supposed to update today (Sunday), but unfortunately my computer like freaked out last night, and I lost the entire chapter, which was all but completed. =( So I've been frantically trying to redo it, and as a result, I'm afraid updating is going to have to be pushed to Monday. I've nearly got it finished, so I may just update it later today… But I know I promised to have it done today, and I sincerely apologize that my computer crashed! Your patience is so wonderful, guys and I really appreciate it! As a result, I plan to update sooner than ****usual, so probably on Tuesday. (That is, if my computer doesn't freak out again!)I'm so sorry for the delay! But thank you all for understanding! =) You're the best. **

**Thanks again! (Also, if you could let me know if you would prefer me to update later today, or just wait until tomorrow, I would greatly appreciate it!) Thanks!**

Chapter Twenty-Eight: A Baby

Sherlock was awoken by the sound of John bustling up the stairs. Even in his hazy state, the detective could tell his friend was in a hurry, his footsteps quick and light on the wooden stairs.

"What is it, John?" he whispered, not even bothering to open his eyes as he could tell it was still it was still dark outside.

"It's Molly," John breathed, taking note of Hamish's sleeping form on Sherlock's chest. "She's gone into labour and she would like us to be at the hospital with her. "

"Oh. Uhh... Of cour—right," the detective mumbled awkwardly, sitting up on the couch. "I'll need to get him ready first, though." He gave a tiny nod to the little boy sleeping in his arms.

"Sure, sure," John whispered back, trying not to wake Hamish. "Well, I'm going to head over, seeing as she's got no one there right now. Umm... I suppose just text me when you're on your way and I'll let you know which room she's in."

"Good. Yes. How uhh—" The detective cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. "How long do you think—I mean—for Hamish..."

"Just depends on the woman, Sherlock," John chuckled, giving his friend a knowing look. "Just head over whenever you're ready. I'll be sure to let you know if anything major happens."

"Yes."

"Right then. See you." With a small nod of his head and a smile at Hamish's sleeping form, the doctor quickly slipped out of the flat, disappearing into the brisk night.

Sherlock gazed after him, listening to the quiet of the flat. "Hospital. Right... Yes," he murmured to himself, slowly getting up off the couch as he took a deep, tired breath. "Well, Hamish... It looks like you're finally going to get to meet Molly's baby." The detective couldn't help but smile as he imagined his son's reaction. "Mmm," he sighed tiredly, pressing a quick kiss to the little boy's curls.

Wanting to give Hamish the opportunity to sleep more, Sherlock slipped away into his room, gently placing the little boy under the covers. "There we go," he whispered, running his fingertips over Hamish's cheek. With a small smile, the detective quickly pulled back, grabbing a new set of clothes and disappeared from the room.

After getting dressed, Sherlock quickly put together a bag for Hamish, and pulled on his coat and scarf.

* * *

"Hamish? Hamish, I need you to wake up for me," Sherlock murmured, gently pulling the little boy out of bed and into his arms.

Eyes fluttering open, Hamish moaned quietly, unhappy at having been woken up at such an early hour. "Mmm... No, Da'ey," he whispered, shaking his head against the detective's arm. "No 'ease..."

"I know," Sherlock chuckled, giving the little boy an affectionate pat on the back. "But we have to go the hospital to see Molly; she's having her baby right now and would like us to come visit her."

"What, Da'ey?" Hamish asked tiredly, closing his eyes and leaning his weight into the detective as he tried to fall asleep once again.

"...Nothing," Sherlock murmured lovingly, pressing his son's tired form closer. "You can rest. I'll get us ready."

"Mmm-hmm."

With careful movements, Sherlock slowly lowered Hamish onto the bed again and managed to tug off his nappy without waking him and then quickly pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Smiling at his son's tiny form, the detective quickly left the room, grabbing Hamish's tiny coat and hurried back, wrapping the little boy in the fabric. "Here we are," he whispered, pulling Hamish back into his arms.

"Tie, Daddy?" the little boy asked quietly, awoken by the movement.

"Yes. Up time."

"'Kay, Daddy... No like."

Sherlock laughed, moving Hamish to his hip as he left the bedroom. "Sorry," he chuckled, finding the diaper bag and slinging it over his shoulder. "I know; it's pretty early, isn't it?"

"Mmm-hmm. What, Daddy?"

"What are we doing up this early?" Sherlock asked, pausing in the middle of the kitchen to gaze questioningly at Hamish.

"'Es, Daddy. What?"

"Well," the detective sighed dramatically, bending down to set the little boy on the ground. Almost smiling in anticipation, Sherlock took each of Hamish's hands in his own, to hold him steady, and stared into the little boy's deep green eyes. "We have to go to the hospital," he stated seriously, trying to conceal his smile.

"What, Daddy?" Hamish gasped anxiously, suddenly very alert.

"_Because_," Sherlock whispered slyly, a small grin spreading across his face as he gave his son's hands a gentle squeeze. "Molly's at the hospital right now having her baby."

Hamish gasped, his eyes widening in amazement as he grasped onto his father's fingers, all traces of tiredness quickly disappearing. "See baby?" he asked incredulously, already beginning to vibrate with excitement.

"Yes!" Sherlock encouraged, grinning at his son. "Ready now?"

"'Es, 'es, Daddy! Go," Hamish cheered determinedly, tugging at the detective's fingers.

"Okay, okay. I'm coming, I promise. Just give me a moment," Sherlock chuckled, releasing his son's fingers and standing up. "All right... Uhh... Do you want any books to bring with you?" he asked, turning around to grab a children's cup for the cab ride.

"No, Daddy..." A pause. "'Es, Daddy. Hen an' ducky," Hamish called, bouncing up and down as he toddled around the flat in excitement.

"Little Red Hen and the Ugly Duckling. Good... Hamish, please don't run near the stairs, the gate is not—" The detective was cut off by a loud crash followed by a tiny whimper. "Hamish!" Sherlock called worriedly, coat billowing behind him as he ran towards the stairs. "Hamish, are you all right?" he cried, upon seeing the little boy in a crumpled heap at the bottom of the stairs.

"Oh. 'Es, Daddy," Hamish said confusedly, pushing himself up off of the ground and then wincing as he tried to use his arm. "Ouch, Daddy," he whimpered just as the detective reached him.

"Shh, I know. Let me see it," Sherlock whispered, crouching down by the little boy. "What hurts?"

Lips pulled into a frown, Hamish pointed to his elbow, staring up at his father with teary, expectant eyes.

"Your elbow, hmm?" With tender fingers, Sherlock slowly lifted his son's arm up, inspecting the damage. He sighed in relief as he saw that there was just a small red patch on the little boy's arm; the skin hadn't even broken from the fall. "You're okay," he murmured, pulling Hamish into his arms. "And you're sure nothing else hurts? Just your elbow?"

"'Es, Daddy. Hame 'kay," the little boy reassured cheerfully.

"Good. I'm sorry," Sherlock apologized quietly, staring guiltily at the red on his son's skin. "It's my fault, Hamish. I should have remembered to put the gate back up. I'm sorry you fell down... Are you sure you're all right?"

"Mmm," the little boy thought for a moment, grabbing ahold of the collar on the detective's coat. "Kiss?" he asked hopefully, already moving his elbow towards his father.

"Of course. I'll give it a kiss to make it better." Not wanting to hurt his son further, Sherlock leaned forward, barely pressing his lips to Hamish's skin. "There we go," he murmured, pulling back. "Better?"

The little boy grinned, bending up to press a kiss of his own to the corner of Sherlock's lips. "'Es, Daddy. 'Etter."

"Good. I'm glad... Well. I do believe we're ready to go. What do you say? Would you like to go meet Molly's baby?"

"Oh! 'Es, Daddy!" Hamish called happily, remembering once again where they were going.

"Excellent."

* * *

Hamish sat comfortably on Sherlock's lap throughout the entire cab ride, sucking happily at his cup of water as he leaned against the detective's stomach, eyes threatening to fall shut at any moment.

"Just a few more minutes," Sherlock reassured, giving Hamish's middle a gentle squeeze.

"Mmmkay, Daddy.

* * *

Shortly after arriving at the hospital, Sherlock managed to find Molly's room. There were three chairs set up outside of the door, two of which were seating John and Mycroft.

"Oh," the detective sighed upon seeing his brother. He gently placed Hamish on the ground, allowing him to run over to his uncle.

"My!" he called excitedly, reaching his chubby arms up towards him.

"Yes," Mycroft chuckled, placing his umbrella against the wall as he bent down to pick the giggling boy up. "Hello, Hamish. How have we been, hmm?"

"Hame an' Daddy good!" Hamish called excitedly, grabbing onto his uncle's tie.

"Shh," both Sherlock and Mycroft chuckled at the same time.

"We must be quiet here," Mycroft said quietly, putting a finger to his lips to show the little boy to be quiet. "Okay?"

"Oh," Hamish whispered almost guiltily. "'Kay, My... Seep?"

"Umm, I don't quite—" Mycroft began, unsure of what the little boy was asking.

"He's asking if you're sleepy," Sherlock translated, giving his son a warm smile.

"Ta, Daddy. 'Es, My."

"No, I'm not sleepy," Mycroft chuckled, moving Hamish to his hip as he started to walk down the hallway, giving his brother and John some time alone. "Why? Are _you_ sleepy?" The faint response of the little boy's tiny voice could just barely be heard as Mycroft disappeared further down the hallway.

Sherlock watched after them with fond eyes, taking little notice when John hurried up beside him.

"Well," the doctor sighed, glancing at the closed door. "Mary's in there with her right now. As far as I know, everything's going well but—"

"I told him, John."

The doctor froze, turning his attention to the detective standing next to him. "Oh," he sighed eventually in realization, face sliding into an expression of understanding. "How'd he take it?"

Sherlock stared at the ground, grey eyes guilty and embarrassed. "He... He thought I wouldn't love him anymore, John... He thought I wouldn't _love_ him. Am I doing something wrong?" the detective asked, now suddenly frantic. "I must not have done enough if he actually thought I wouldn't _love_ him anymore just because he doesn't share my DNA. Should I have done more to show him how _much_ I love him? Because I do, John. I love him with all of my heart, it's just... I—I just—Wonder if maybe he wouldn't have been better someplace else with—"

"Sherlock! No. No. You know that's not true. I mean, have you seen how _happy_ that little boy is? He knows you love him, Sherlock. Trust me... He knows how much you love him. And nothing, from the way he looks to the blood in his veins is going to change that... And he knows that, Sherlock... And don't you _dare_ think for one second that that beautiful little boy could possibly be happier anywhere else. Blood-related or not, he is your son. And nothing is ever going to change that."

Sherlock was stunned into silence. Mouth hanging open and eyes nearly filling with tears, the detective stared at his flat mate, gratefulness welling in his eyes. John, himself, had also been stunned into silence, amazed at his own outburst. "Sorry," he mumbled awkwardly.

"No," Sherlock breathed, smiling as he ran John's words through his head. "Thank you, John... Very much... That uhh... Was good."

"Good," the doctor echoed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Thank you... I just uhh... Yes well—" John was interrupted by the sound of the door opening behind him. Both flat mates turned around to see Mary, a wide grin on her face. "It's a girl," she breathed excitedly, hurrying forward to wrap her arms around John's shoulders. "She did so well, John."

"And everything is good, I assume?" the doctor asked, planting a quick kiss to his fiancé's cheek.

"Yes," Mary sighed thankfully. "Everything's wonderful. They're just cleaning both of them up right now and then you can go in. Oh! Hello Sherlock! Where's Hamish gone?" she asked, glancing up and down the hallway.

"Oh, uhh, Mycroft's taken him for a moment," Sherlock informed, giving Mary a small smile.

"Oh. Right, good."

"Speaking of," John murmured, as the sound of Hamish's tiny voice came back into earshot. All three turned to gaze at the end of the corridor and saw Mycroft, walking hand in hand with Hamish down the hallway.

"Really? Is that so?" Mycroft chuckled, gazing down at his nephew.

"Mmm-hmm. An'—Daddy!" the little boy cried excitedly upon seeing his father. Grinning and giggling, Hamish ran down the length of the hallway, jumping into his father's open arms. "Molly baby?" he asked hopefully, tiny hands curling around the soft fabric of Sherlock coat.

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, smiling down at his son. "Molly had a baby girl."

Hamish's eyes widened in awe, mouthing falling open as he stared wide-eyed at Sherlock. "Real?"

"Really, really," the detective chuckled, running his fingertips over Hamish's back. "Would you like to see her?"

"Hame _see_?" the little boy asked incredulously, a tiny smile pulling at the corners of his lips as he stared into Sherlock's eyes.

"Of course. As soon as Mary gives us the okay."

"I think you'd be fine going in now," Mary said quietly, giving Hamish a warm smile. "Have fun," she added, leaning forward to brush a thumb over the little boy's chubby cheek.

Smiling at the anticipation on his son's face, Sherlock gently pushed past John and Mary, who were still embracing, moved Hamish to his hip, and opened the door with his free hand. "Now we have to be very quiet," he whispered, raising an eyebrow at his son to make sure he understood.

"'Es, Daddy."

"Good." With a small smile, Sherlock pushed open the door to Molly's room. There were a few nurses milling about in the white room, all hurrying in different directions. The detective paused once he saw the pathologist, curled up on the bed, a tiny bundle wrapped in pink resting on her chest.

The detective turned his gaze to Hamish, chuckling as he saw how overwhelmed his son looked. "Hamish?" he whispered, pulling the little boy's attention back to him, though it was clear he was having a hard time focusing with all of the movement around him.

"Hmm?" Hamish asked, gazing over Sherlock's shoulder while he stared at the door.

"Look over there," Sherlock murmured, pointing in the direction of Molly and her new baby.

"Ohh," Hamish sighed in wonder upon catching a sight of the tiny bundle pressed against her chest. Clearly too amazed to speak, the little boy just tugged at the collar of Sherlock's shirt, silently telling him to move closer.

Upon hearing the movement and voices, Molly looked up, a content smile on her face. "Oh," she sighed happily upon seeing Sherlock and Hamish. "Hello there, Hamish," she whispered, giving a tiny wave to the little boy and a warm smile to his father. "Would you like to see her?"

"'Es! 'Ease, Daddy!" Hamish called quietly, pulling at his father's coat.

"Okay, okay," Sherlock chuckled, placing his son on the ground. A small smile on his lips, the detective turned to Molly. "How would you like to do this?" he asked quietly, staring at her with expectant eyes.

"Why don't you just hold her, and then you can kneel down and let him see her?" the pathologist suggested quietly.

"Oh... Well—I'm not—I mean are you sure you want me to—"

"Of course, Sherlock," Molly chuckled, already passing the tiny baby to the detective.

"Yes, right... Okay..." With carefully, albeit nervous, hands, Sherlock gently took the resting baby from Molly's arms. He gazed down at he for a moment, trying to imagine what Hamish might have looked like right after he was born. He couldn't help but smile as he stared down at the sleeping bundle in his hands, noticing how, already, though pink and kind of squishy-looking, the little girl was going to grow up to look very similar to her mother.

"Okay," Sherlock sighed quietly, slowly lowering onto the ground. "Hamish," he whispered, pulling the little boy's attention back to him once again.

"Oh!" Hamish gasped upon seeing Molly's newborn in his father's hands.

"Shh, Hamish. Slow and gentle," Sherlock reminded, giving his son a warm smile.

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy whispered, tiptoeing over to his father, eyes desperately trying to get a look at the infant.

"It's okay, Hamish," Sherlock encouraged, slowly moving his hands forward and down so Hamish could see better. "Do you see?" he whispered, holding the baby in front of his son's observant eyes.

Seeing the little baby for the first time, Hamish gasped, leaning forward to wrap his tiny hands around Sherlock's wrist. "Wow, Daddy," he whispered in utter amazement, gazing down at the little baby in his father's hand. Mouth hanging open the little boy slowly reached forward with single, chubby finger, and brushed it over the little girl's cheek, barely touching the skin. "Wow..." he whispered again, staring in amazement at the tiny human being.

"Yes," Sherlock echoed, gaze traveling between the baby girl in his arms and Hamish, smiling at the pure amazement and happiness on his son's face.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?"

"Want."

Neither Sherlock nor Molly could stop their laughter. "You want a baby of your own?" Sherlock chuckled, gazing into his son's awe-struck eyes.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish responded, deep green irises still glued to Molly's daughter. "Want."

"Well," Sherlock sighed, standing up and gently passing the baby back to her mother. "I'll be getting right on that, then," he chuckled.

"'Es, Daddy!" Hamish cheered triumphantly, reaching up towards his father. "'Ease," he added hurriedly, tugging at the detective's trousers.

"All right," Sherlock murmured fondly, bending down to pick the little boy up. "You did a very good job being gentle with Aunt Molly's baby," the detective said quietly, giving his son a warm, reassuring smile. "Come on, then... Let's say one last goodbye to Aunt Molly and her baby and then we need to head home; you've been up far too long tonight."

"Oh... 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sighed sadly.

"Very good. Thank you Hamish. All right... Say bye to Aunt Molly and her baby," Sherlock encouraged quietly, bending down so the little boy could see the baby's face once again.

"B-bye Baby," Hamish whispered, leaning forward in his father's arms to press a soft kiss to the little girl's forehead. "Good... B-bye Molly. 'Ove."

Despite her tiredness, Molly smiled warmly at Hamish. "Bye, darling. I love you, too," she whispered, giving the little boy a tiny wave. "I'll see you two later," she said, though it was more to Sherlock than to Hamish.

"Of course," the detective whispered, taking one last glance at Molly's baby. "Congratulations."

"Thank you, Sherlock," Molly replied quietly, giving Sherlock a small smile.

"Of course," the detective murmured, returning the friendly smile. "We'll probably be back later today after Hamish has gotten a proper amount of sleep."

"Mmm," Molly sighed in reply, gazing down at her own baby.

With another quick smile, Sherlock quickly slipped out of the room.

* * *

Hamish fell asleep on the cab ride back to 221B, a small smile on his lips as he was no doubt dreaming or thinking about Molly's baby.

Smiling down at his son, Sherlock quickly made his way into the flat, collapsing onto his bed as the lack of sleep started to catch up with him.

"Daddy?" Hamish asked groggily, having awoken at the jostling.

"Nothing," Sherlock murmured, tenderly running his knuckles over the little boy's cheek. "Sorry I woke you..."

"Mmm. Like baby," Hamish sighed contently, snuggling into his father's warmth.

"Yes... I know," the detective murmured lovingly, eyes feeling heavy as he gazed down at his son.

"Daddy wan'?" Hamish asked quietly, fighting his tiredness.

"Do I want another baby?"

The little boy paused, taking a moment to yawn widely before continuing. "'Es. Daddy want?"

"... No," Sherlock whispered eventually, pressing a soft kiss to Hamish's curls. "I like having just one baby... My one Hamish."

"Mmm," the little boy sighed contently, a small smile gracing his lips as his eyes slid shut. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, leaning into his father as he fell asleep.

That familiar warmth spreading through his body, Sherlock pulled Hamish's tiny form closer, closing his eyes as the last bit of energy escaped. "My Hamish."


	29. Chapter Twenty-Nine: Snowed In

**Hey guys! So, I don't know how many of you saw my update in the notes on the last chapter. But, just in case you didn't, I would like to apologize for not updating like I said I would. Saturday night, my computer totally freaked out, and I lost this entire chapter. I spent most of yesterday desperately trying to re-write it from scratch. =/ Anyway, but because of my stupid computer, I wasn't able to finish it in time to get it posted on Sunday. I'm so sorry about that guys, especially since there was such a huge gap between Chapter Twenty-Seven and Eight. So I sincerely apologize for that, and I greatly appreciate your understanding! **

**As a result, I've made this one extra-long, my longest yet, actually (which is hopefully a good thing), and I've already started writing the next chapter, so that one will be up on Thursday because I can't update on Wednesday, unfortunately. And then I'll get my updating back on track; it's been a crazy past two weeks, so I apologize for that. But thank you all so much for reviewing and just being wonderful! I really appreciate it! =) Thanks, guys! **

**Hope you like this chapter. =)**

Chapter Twenty-Nine: Snowed In

"Phone, Sherlock," John sighed, clearly annoyed by the ringing.

"Mmm. Yes."

Rolling his eyes, the doctor shoved himself up from his comfortable position in his chair and snatched his friend's phone, gazing at the caller ID. "Mycroft."

"Ignore it," Sherlock answered tersely, pressing his fingers closer to his lips as he thought, sprawled across the couch.

"Please. Hello? Ye—Yes, this John. Well it would appear your _brother_," John sighed, giving the detective a quick glare. "Is _far_ too busy to speak with you at the moment. Yes... Oh. Well—I mean I suppose. Sure... Yes... Yes... That should be fine. Wonderful. They'll see you then." Chuckling smugly to himself, the doctor quickly ended the call, gazing at his flat mate. "You," he drawled slowly, "are going to take Hamish to—"

"No. I am not taking Hamish to his... _Estate_. No."

"How did—"

"I saw the text message. The answer is still no."

"Sherlock," John sighed, exasperated. "Come on. He just wants to give Hamish his Christmas presents, seeing as he won't be here for the actual occasion."

"John, no. I just—"

"You know how much it would mean to Hamish," the doctor countered quickly, glancing towards the door to Sherlock's bedroom, where the little boy was napping.

With a dramatic sigh, the detective opened his eyes, letting his hands fall to his sides as he gazed unhappily at John. "... Fine," he huffed eventually, holding his hand out for the phone.

"Good." With a smug smile, the doctor passed the mobile to his flat mate, dropping the phone into his open palm.

Sherlock waited as the phone rang, lips pressed into a thin line. "All right. I will bring him on one condition... I need specific details on a case; anything you have. And I _must_ have full access of the library. Yes. Fine... Satisfied?" he asked, handing the phone back to John.

"Library?" the doctor asked, setting the mobile on the arm of his chair. "What's that about?" In response, Sherlock's gaze promptly fell to the ground as he absentmindedly pursed his lips. With a deep breath, as if he was going to say something, the detective cleared his throat, keeping his eyes downcast as he hurried into the kitchen, suddenly very interested in his microscope.

"Hey, wait a minute!" John called, hurrying after his friend. "What was all that about? I only asked about the library—"

Refusing to look at the doctor, Sherlock stared into his microscope, "adjusting" the magnification. "Mycroft now lives in the estate I grew up in as a young child. And, as you can imagine, there are some... Memories... I would rather not relive," the detective mumbled, eyebrows pulling together as he frowned into the lens. "That's all."

"Oh," John sighed quietly, suddenly feeling very guilty at inadvertently forcing his friend into going back to the house in which he suffered years of abuse at the hand of his father. "I'm sorry," he whispered, staring awkwardly at the ground. "I didn't know."

"I understand, John. It's all right. Hamish will enjoy it... So I can go," Sherlock murmured, gaze quickly flicking towards his door.

"You're sure?"

"... Yes." The doctor couldn't help but notice the slight pause of hesitation.

"Right... Well, I should probably go and wake him up," John said quietly, nodding towards his friend's bedroom.

"Thank you." The detective waited for the sound of his door gently bumping shut before pulling away from the microscope. Face drawn together into an almost pained expression, Sherlock slowly walked over to the window, placing a hand in his pocket as he gazed out at the grey afternoon, mulling over the inevitable trip. "For Hamish," he whispered determinedly, giving a firm nod of his head as he steadied himself, clearing his mind of the memories and thoughts threatening to take over.

"Daddy?" came the soft call of Hamish, voice cracking with sleep.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile fondly at hearing his son's voice. "I'm just here, Hamish," he called back, turning around to see John, the little boy resting tiredly on his hip, coming in through the kitchen.

"Mmm... Da'ey," he sighed sleepily, practically falling out of the doctor's grasp as he leaned forward, stretching his chubby arms towards Sherlock.

"All right... All right," the detective chuckled, pulling his hand out of his pocket as he reached forward, taking the little boy from John's arms. "There we are. Did you have a good rest, Hamish?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed, snuggling against the base of his father's neck as he yawned, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes.

"Good." With a small smile, Sherlock gave his son an affectionate pat on the back. He quickly glanced at John, raising his eyebrows in question. The doctor replied with a reassuring smile and a slight shake of his head.

"Right, then. Hamish? I have a question for you... Mycroft has requested that we come over to his house so that he might give you your Christmas early, seeing as he will not actually be here Christmas morning." Both John and Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle out loud at the utterly lost look on Hamish's face, unable to keep up with his father's rapid speaking.

"My?" he asked confusedly, desperately trying to sort through Sherlock's long dialogue.

"Yes," John chuckled, gazing fondly at the little boy. "Daddy's going to take you to Mycroft's for presents," he translated, giving Hamish a warm smile.

"Oh. My, Daddy," he informed Sherlock cheerfully, cheek bumping against the detective's shoulder as he leaned forward, still tired.

"Yes, thank you Hamish," Sherlock chuckled, brushing his hand over his son's auburn curls. "What do you think? Would you like to?"

"'Es 'ease Daddy! Unk My!"

Despite his uneasiness, Sherlock smiled down at his son, subconsciously pulling him closer in an effort to calm his worries. "Right... Let's go get ready, then, I suppose," he said, giving Hamish a cheerful pat on the bottom.

"'Kay, Daddy."

"Good. How about you go with John and I'll get everything we'll need, hmm?"

"'Kay," Hamish replied cheerfully, stretching his arms towards the doctor.

"There we are," Sherlock sighed, passing the little boy to John. "Here we go," he added, watching as the two disappeared into the kitchen.

* * *

Nearly thirty minutes later, after dealing with a tiny fit from Hamish at being forced to wear clothes, Sherlock and the little boy were loaded into a cab, two large bags placed on the floor.

"Have everything?" John asked, leaning into the cab.

"I think so. We should be back later tonight, but there's a chance of snow, so I've brought an extra pair of clothes just in case—Hamish do not pull off your shirt. We've already talked about this; you must wear your clothes until we get there." With a small pout, the little reluctantly released the fabric, staring at the ground. "Thank you." He turned back to John. "Yes, I do believe we have everything we need. Thank you, John. Enjoy the quiet," he chuckled, giving his friend a knowing look

"Hmm," John hummed contently, already reveling in the idea. "Trust me. I will."

"Right... Well then! I think we'd best be off," Sherlock said, trying to sound cheerful as he turned back to gaze at Hamish, who was now on the other side of the cab, his chubby face pressed against the window.

"Hmm? Oh! Go, Daddy?" he asked excitedly, haphazardly crawling back towards his father.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, pulling the little boy onto his lap. "Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm! Go, Daddy!" Hamish cried bouncing on the detective's legs.

"Yes, yes, okay. Goodbye, John." Sherlock managed a warm smile, hoping he looked more confident than he felt.

"Bye, you two. B-bye Hamish!" John called softly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to the little boy's cheek. "Have fun at Uncle Mycroft's."

"'Es, John. Ba-bye!"

Smiling at his flat mate's son, John stepped back and quickly pushed the door shut.

* * *

The cab ride to Mycroft's estate was long and isolated.

Though bouncing with excitement at the beginning of the journey, crawling back and forth across the cab to get the best view, Hamish was now weary from the long time spent in the car, and was huddled close to his father's side, deep green eyes gazing tiredly out of the window as he grasped onto the detective's arm.

"Daddy," he groaned quietly, burying his face in fabric of Sherlock's soft coat.

"I know," the detective whispered, shifting uncomfortably in his seat as they drew nearer and nearer. "Almost there. Would you prefer to sit on my lap?"

"Mmm. 'Es 'ease, Daddy." With a tiny grunt of effort, Hamish released his grip around Sherlock's arm, and pulled himself onto the detective's legs. "Good, Daddy," he sighed in response, resting contently against his father's chest as he continued to stare out the window, watching as the countryside whizzed by.

"Mmm, "Sherlock hummed in response, eyes anxiously flitting back and forth between the windows.

Hearing his father's lack of response and feeling the detective's tense form, Hamish's eyebrows pulled together in worry. He gazed up at Sherlock, using his shirt as a way to pull himself into a standing position. "Ah!" he cried upon releasing the fabric and nearly falling backwards from the bumps in the road.

"Oh!" Instantly, Sherlock reached forward, grabbing his son's arm with one hand and supporting him from the back with the other. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured, giving the little boy a weak smile.

Sensing that something was clearly wrong, Hamish frowned, falling forward with another bump. His chubby fingers splayed across Sherlock's cheek and neck as he examined the detective with worried eyes. "What, Daddy?" he whispered quietly, staring earnestly into his father's light eyes.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing Hamish, I was just—"

"No, Daddy," Hamish said firmly, moving one of his hands to cover the detective's lips. "What?"

Sherlock paused, staring sadly into his son's observant eyes. "I'm just nervous," he murmured, pulling Hamish's fingers away from his mouth and wrapping them safely in his own. "The place Mycroft lives... That's where I grew up with my Mummy and Daddy. There were just some bad things that happened there, that's all. And I'm only a little worried about it... I promise. I'm all right," Sherlock reassured, pulling his son's fingers back to his lips. "See?" he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the little boy's palm. "I'm okay."

"Mmm," Hamish hummed skeptically, clearly unconvinced. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, absentmindedly playing with a lock of his father's raven hair.

* * *

"Thank you," Sherlock said quietly, thanking and paying the cab driver. He watched, worrying his lip as the car drove away, leaving him with several bags and a wide-eyed Hamish in front of his brother's large estate.

"Daddy," the little boy sighed, almost fearfully, as he gazed up at the large mansion-like home. Intimidated by the sheer size of his uncle's estate, Hamish scooted closer to Sherlock, who had the bags slung over each of his shoulders, and gripped tightly to the fabric of his trousers, hiding behind the detective's legs.

"It's all right, Hamish," Sherlock reassured gently, looking back and down over his shoulder to give his son a reassuring smile. "I'm just here. You can take my hand." Shifting the large bags ever so slightly, the detective reached down, feeling a strange twinge of sadness as he felt the little boy grip onto his fingers with both hands, still hiding behind his leg.

"Here we go." With a deep breath, and giving his son's hand a gentle squeeze, Sherlock moved forward. He couldn't help but feel the urge to protect Hamish as he noticed how tiny, how innocent... How vulnerable the little boy seemed, hiding behind his leg as they made their way up the steps. "I'm just here," he repeated softly.

With frightened eyes, Hamish followed closely behind his father, clinging to the detective with both of his hands.

Not bothering to knock, as he knew his brother was already expecting them, Sherlock pushed open one of the large double doors, holding it open so Hamish could hurry inside.

"There we are," he murmured, quickly placing the bags on the ground so he could pull the little boy into his arms, opting to have him close, rather than on the ground, though the action went almost completely unnoticed by Hamish, as he was staring wide-eyed at the interior of the estate, which was much less ominous than the exterior. The walls were decorated with intricate gold designs, and several antique chairs and couches were scattered across the large entrance room.

"Ah. Excellent. I see you made it here safely," came the drawling voice of Mycroft. Sherlock turned in the direction of his brother's voice, gazing in the dim light at Mycroft's dark form, sitting in one of the chairs.

"Yes," the detective murmured, moving Hamish, who was still amazed by his new surroundings, to his hip. "We're fine. I understand you have some presents you wish to give Hamish?"

"Now, now, no need to rush. I trust you'll be staying for dinner?"

"I don't really—"

"Unk My!" Hamish gasped suddenly, seeing his uncle for the first time. He tugged at the collar of Sherlock's coat, silently asking to be put down. With a tiny eye roll, the detective gently lowered his son onto the floor.

"Hello there, Hamish!" Mycroft called cheerfully, pulling the little boy into a tight hug. "What do you say, hmm? Would you like to stay for dinner?"

In response, Hamish grinned, giggling madly in his uncle's arms. He reached forward, wrapping his arms around Mycroft's neck in a tight hug.

"Excellent. Then it's settled," he chuckled, giving Sherlock a sly smile. "You'll stay for dinner. Now. I say we go and get you both settled into a room, yes?"

"I don't need one," Sherlock said tersely, suddenly very tense as he glanced down the long corridor to their left, eyes lingering on one of the many rooms lining the walls.

"Maybe not, but he might," Mycroft said, unaware of his brother's uneasiness as he gently tickled Hamish's stomach. "Would you like to pick your room?"

"'Es, My," the little boy sighed, leaning forward to rest his head against Mycroft's shoulder.

"Wonderful."

Sherlock watched with tense eyes as his brother started to walk down the corridor, flicking on a light switch as he went. Rolling his eyes and heaving a dramatic sigh, the detective picked up the bags, trying to remain confident as he followed closely behind his brother and son.

"I don't know if you'd like to," Mycroft drawled, approaching a room. "But I thought it might rather fun if you stayed your fathe—"

"No. Absolutely not," Sherlock almost growled. "He will _not_ be staying in that room."

"At least let him see it," Mycroft joked, pushing open the door to the room. A mixture of anger, fear and a strange need to protect Hamish rising in his chest, the detective hurried forward, ready to snatch the little boy away from his brother's arms and take him back to safety and comfort of 221B.

Sherlock froze, though, as did Mycroft upon entering the room. The air seemed very different... Dark. Sad. Hamish, who had previously been chatting away, also froze, features scrunching together in fear.

"Daddy," he whined, eyes frantically darting back and forth around the room as he reached backward, grasping the air in an attempt to find his father.

Pushing aside the painful memories flooding his mind, Sherlock hurried forward, taking Hamish into his arms. "Sorry, Hamish," he murmured, pressing a comforting kiss to the little boy's curls. "Sorry." Taking one last, disdainful look at his old room, which had not changed since he left, the detective quickly pressed Hamish close to his chest and hurried back into the hallway.

"Yes, Hamish," Mycroft whispered, quickly shutting the door behind him. "I'm sorry as well."

"'Kay," the little boy sniffled against Sherlock's coat, settling further into the detective's embrace.

"Uhh... Let's continue, then, shall we?"

* * *

Eventually the three found a room which Hamish felt most comfortable in, after which Mycroft promptly had a cot (which he'd bought in preparation) in.

"We're only staying if we get snowed in," Sherlock reminded his brother warily, walking out of his son's temporary room, with the little boy still nestled tightly against him.

"Yes, I know. But I thought it was better to be safe than sorry."

"Mmm."

After moving the bags into the room and getting the cot proper placed (where Hamish had 'required' it to be), the three were on their way to dinner.

* * *

After eating, during which Hamish had refused to eat until his father ate nearly all of his own food, Mycroft was ready to give his nephew his early Christmas presents.

"Well. I think I'm going to head to the library, then," Sherlock informed the two of them quietly, as he could clearly sense that his brother was wanting a little alone time with Hamish.

"All of the information you wanted is already on the desk."

"Good. Thank you. Hamish?" the detective asked softly, bending down so he was eye level with the little boy, who had his hand wrapped around on of Mycroft's fingers. "I'm going to go to the library so I can do a little studying on the case, all right? Will you be all right with just Uncle Mycroft?"

"'Es, Daddy," the little boy giggled contently, hurrying forward to wrap his arms around his father's lowered neck. "Fun!"

"Right," Sherlock chuckled, pulling back to plant a quick kiss to Hamish's chubby cheek. "I'll be just there if you need me, all right?"

"Hmm. 'Kay, Daddy," the little boy hummed quietly, bending up to press a soft kiss to his father's chin.

"Thank you, Hamish," Sherlock whispered, brushing some of the little boy's unruly curls out of his eyes. "Right then. Have fun. And I'm just down the hall if you need me."

"'Kay, Daddy. Fun," Hamish whispered, almost sadly, watching as his father started to make his way down the hallway.

"I'll try to... Thank you, Hamish."

* * *

With one quick glance at the papers on the desk, Sherlock solved the case almost immediately. He was just about to call Lestrade when he noticed that there was picture on the top of the desk… A picture of Mycroft and his father. Frowning, the detective slipped the phone back into pocket and reached forward, moving the farm closer.

Old frame, old picture. Sentiment. Well dusted. Treasured. A favorite.

Sherlock stared with a pensive gaze at the picture, staring into the eyes of his father… With a shudder as he saw the depth of those all-so-familiar irises, the detective all but threw the picture back, the prick of tears stinging his eyes as he thought about those eyes… All they had seen. All the person they belonged to had done...

"No. You are fine," he scolded himself, straightening himself and smoothing down the front of his suit. Forcing himself to clear away the painful memories, Sherlock quickly discarded his coat, and started to walk around the library, scanning the shelves for an interesting book.

Satisfied with his pick, the detective slowly meandered his way back to the desk, trying to ignore the strange feeling of eyes on his back. He opened to the first page, willing himself not to run across the house, grab Hamish and leave. "No. Read."

Sherlock didn't read a word that night.

* * *

"Ta, My!" Hamish called happily, rushing forward with a small bunny clutched between his chubby fingers.

"Oh! You're very welcome, Hamish," Mycroft chuckled happily, nearly falling back from his sitting position as the little boy ran into him. "I see you like the bunny, hmm?"

"'Es, My! Hame like!" Hamish called happily, gazing into his uncle's eyes. "Ta, My."

"Of course… My goodness! Look how late it is! How did that happen?" he chuckled, pulling Hamish against his chest as he stood up. "I say we go get ready for bed."

The little boy pouted for a moment, clutching the bunny closer. "'Kay, My," he sighed eventually, not wanting to admit his own tiredness. With a yawn he tried, but failed, to conceal, Hamish leaned against Mycroft's shoulder, lulled into a sleepy state by the warm light of the hallway and the gently swaying of his uncle as he walked.

"How about we go get your father?"

"Mmm-hmm. 'Ease."

Smiling fondly at the little boy in his arms, Mycroft made his way through the large house, watching fondly as Hamish played with the ear of the bunny, murmuring contently to himself.

* * *

"Sherlock?" Mycroft called as he entered the library, pushing open the large wooden doors. He quickly glanced around the room, raising his eyebrows as he saw the detective's lean figure, gazing out of one of the few windows in the large room.

"Daddy," Hamish called tiredly, reaching his arms out towards his father.

Upon hearing his son's voice, Sherlock turned, pulling his hands out of his pockets. He managed a small smile, chuckling as he saw Hamish's tiny form practically falling out of his brother's arms.

"I'm here, Hamish," he called quietly, hurrying over and taking the little boy into his arms.

"I'm afraid you two are just going to have to stay here tonight," Mycroft drawled, passing the little boy over. "The exit's been snowed in; we have no way to get you out.

"Fine," Sherlock said tersely, pressing his son's tiny form close, eager for his comfort.

"Mmm… Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, glad to be wrapped in the familiar warmth of his father's arms. With a content smile, the little boy leaned forward, pressing his head into the space at the base of the detective's neck.

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, bending down to take a deep breath, calmed by the his son's sweet smell. He shot a quick glance at Mycroft, who was now peering around the library, taking note of all of the books strewn about the floor and desk.

"Come on, then," the detective whispered, not wanting to face his brother's questions just yet. "Let's go get ready for bed."

"'Es, Daddy."

Pressing Hamish close, Sherlock quickly hurried out of the room, embarrassed by the aftershocks of his emotion. "Ohh," he sighed gratefully, once in the hallway. Pressing his eyes closed, the detective took a deep breath, in an effort to steady himself. He tried to find reassurance in the feel of Hamish's cheek pressed against his skin. With a quiet sniffle, Sherlock reached for his eyes, wiping away the evidence of his sorrow.

"Did you have good time with Mycroft?" he managed after a few moments.

"Mmm-hmm. 'Ny," Hamish replied as cheerfully as he could, holding up a tired arm.

"Wow look at that," Sherlock sighed, feigning amazement. "You got a bunny, didn't you? That's wonderful, Hamish."

Smiling fondly at his son's tired from, the detective started to walk forward, slowly making his way down the dimly-lit hallway. "I'm glad you had a good time," he whispered, pressing a gentle kiss to the little boy's curls.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, nuzzling against his father's skin. "Got 'ny."

Sherlock chuckled, opening the door to what was, for the night, Hamish's room. He sighed in relief as he remembered that it had absolutely no resemblance to his own room. "All right," he sighed quietly, lowering to the ground, as there was no baby-changing station. The detective chuckled as Hamish's head lolled to the side, overcome by his tiredness as he yawned.

"It's been a long day, hmm?" Sherlock asked gently, tugging off the little boy's trousers and shirt. Gazing fondly at his son, the detective quickly changed the little boy's nappy. "Ready?" he whispered, pulling Hamish's almost-limp form into his arms.

"Mmm," the little boy sighed, closing his eyes as he leaned into his father's touch.

"Good," Sherlock whispered, smiling affectionately as he walked over to the crib, starting to lower Hamish into the crib. He stopped suddenly as he heard the little boy gasp and felt his tiny fingers wrapping around his own.

"Daddy," Hamish whispered, sounding almost fearful. He gripped onto Sherlocks' fingers, eyes quickly filling with tears as he stared into his father's eyes, silently begging him not to leave.

"Okay, okay," the detective whispered hurriedly, instantly pulling Hamish back to his chest. "What's wrong, Hamish?" he asked worriedly, running a comforting hand over the little boy's bare back.

Clutching onto his father's suit jacket, the little boy started to sniffle, and he pressed himself even closer to the detective. "No 'ease 'eave, Daddy," Hamish whispered, scrunching his eyes shut as he clung to Sherlock's chest.

"Oh, Hamish," the detective sighed sadly, hugging his son even closer. "I won't leave... I'll stay with you. I know; it's a bit scary here, isn't it?" he asked softly, hoping to ease Hamish's discomfort. Gently swaying back and forth, Sherlock made his way to the corner of the room where there sat an old rocking chair. "Here we are... See? I'm right here," he murmured, settling into the cushions.

"No 'eave?" Hamish asked quietly, still clinging to the detective.

"No. I'm not leaving," Sherlock reassured, bending back to give the little boy a comforting smile. "Promise."

"...'Kay, Daddy," Hamish sighed, relaxing in his father's arms. "Vl'n?" he asked hopefully.

"Play my violin?" Sherlock murmured, running his thumb over the little boy's smooth skin. "I'm sorry, Hamish. I don't have it with me… But I could sing if you'd like. Would that work?" he asked gently.

"Mmm. 'Es 'ease, Daddy."

"Of course." With a loving gaze, Sherlock started to rock back and forth in the chair, allowing Hamish to crawl up towards his face. Sighing contently, the small boy wrapped his arms around the detective's neck; he pressed his cheek against Sherlock's jaw, closing his eyes as he got comfortable. "Mmm. 'Kay Daddy."

"Right." With a quiet breath, the detective placed one hand on his son's tiny back and started to hum a soft, airy tune, one he'd written for Hamish shortly after the little boy had come to live with him.

Enjoying the soothing sound of his father's smooth voice, Hamish's eyes slowly slid shut and he breathed in time with the gentle rocking, body moving against the detective's as he shifted back and forth. "Da," he managed to whisper quietly, before going completely limp in his father's arms.

Sherlock slowly stilled his rocking, though he continued to hum the soft lullaby, tracing circles onto Hamish's bare back with one hand and gently twirling a lock of the little boy's silky hair in the other. Smiling lovingly at his son, the detective left the rocking chair, clutching Hamish close to his chest as he moved to the crib. "Sleep well," he murmured, reluctantly setting the little boy's small body in the cot. With a tender gaze, Sherlock bent over, placing a hand to the side of his son's tiny head, brushing his thumb over the little boy's eyebrow. "Wish me luck," he added, leaning down to press a loving kiss to Hamish's forehead. "Goodnight." With wistful eyes, the detective pulled away, finding the little boy's new toy, and placed the stuffed bunny next to his sleeping form. Then, moving as silently as possible, Sherlock opened one of the diaper bag, pulling out a baby monitor. He quickly clicked it on, placing the small box on a side table close to the crib and then tucked the transmitting end into his pocket.

"Sleep well, Hamish," the detective whispered, quickly slipping out of the room and shutting the door behind him.

* * *

"I see you found the letter," Mycroft said quietly as he heard Sherlock enter behind him, sliding the last book into its place on the shelf.

"Mmm," the detective hummed in reply, linking his hands behind his back as he moved towards his brother, squaring his jaw in defiance. "Yes." Sherlock frowned as he reached the desk, staring down at the note. "I'm glad father was able to express how proud he was of you," the detective murmured to himself.

"Is that what this was about?" Mycroft scoffed, gesturing around the room where, previously, the mess of books had been scattered about the floor.

Sherlock paused, quirking his lips in mild embarrassment. "Perhaps," he said quietly, staring across the room at his brother.

"Sherlock, really," Mycroft scolded, giving the detective a dithering book. Raising a distasteful eyebrow at his brother, the government official meandered over to the desk. "I don't understand why you become so upset every time the topic of our father comes up. And don't you think terrorizing my library was a little—"

"Mycroft," Sherlock began quietly, trying to contain the anger and contempt he felt crawling through his blood. "Did it never occur to you _why_ I may react the way I do? Never occur to you to think about the possibility that I may actually be feeling something?"

"Oh, Sherlock, please don't be a child—"

"Perhaps," the detective continued, acting as if his brother had not even spoken. With icy eyes, he started to take slow steps towards Mycroft, voice suspiciously calm as he continued. "_Perhaps_... I feel the way I do because I had tried everything—_everything_—in my power to gain father's trust... His pride, his praise... _Anything_. Yet," he was nearly to his brother now, "no matter how many times I tried, how many grades I brought home, no matter what I did, Mycroft... _You_ were always the perfect one. _You_ were always the one he would take out to dinner. It was _you_ who got the kisses at night, the hugs, the rewards for good work. And yet—no matter how much I succeeded and excelled—it was always _you_ who was perfect, who was wonderful! Destined for greatness!" By now, Sherlock was practically seething, unable to contain his anger as he glared down at Mycroft, eyes burning with the hatred he felt.

"Brother, please—"

"And all because I was _different_!" Sherlock practically sobbed, face scruching together in a mix of resentment and sorrow. "You got lavish dinners and gifts and everything you asked for because you were the normal one. And what did I get? I got a father who, just because I was not quite like everyone else, would slip into my room in the middle of the night, unable to form a proper sentence because he was so drunk, and do unthinkable things to me while you slept away in your room down the hall. You got kisses at night, Mycroft... And what did I get? I got years and _years_ of abuse and suffering! How do you think that made me feel every night, _brother_? Watching from my room as our father would stumble away into yours and plant a tender kiss to your head, after having just finished with me! How can you possibly understand how that made me feel?" Overwhelmed by the emotion flooding his body, Sherlock barely noticed as a few a hot tears slid down his cheeks. His chest was heaving as he spoke, the words and emotions he'd kept bottled inside for years finally spilling out.

"You will never understand! Never know how many times I wondered what was wrong me; wondered if I could somehow pull it out, change myself; make me into you, just so I could make the _pain_ stop! Just so I would be able to go to sleep at night, not fearing if _father_ was going to enter at a moment's notice! You will never know that _fear_, Mycroft, the helplessness one feels afterwards, the questions you ask about how your own father could do something so horrible and vile to you. You just—how?" Body shaking with anger and grief, Sherlock took a deep breath, all of the fight and anger seeming to suddenly vanish from his veins, as he paused. "How can you possibly know how that feels?" the detective whispered, the anger ebbing away as he stared at his brother's horrified face. He quickly glanced at the note on the desk. The note that congratulated Mycroft for all he had succeeded in doing in life... The letter that told of how regretful their father was that Mycroft would have to deal with a brother such as the likes of _Sherlock Holmes_.

"Damn it, Mycroft," the detective practically gasped, collapsing into a nearby chair. "Can you really not see that you were always the perfect one? Can you not see that you had the only thing I ever wanted: normalcy... How can you possibly know how that feels?" Embarrassed now by his emotional outburst, Sherlock stared at the ground, taking no notice as a few more hot tears slipped free.

Mycroft, who was stunned into silence, stared with sad eyes at his younger brother, drinking in all that the detective had just confessed. "Sherlock," he managed to whisper eventually. "I... I—I'm sorry, Sherlock... I didn't know. I didn't... I'm so sorry."

The detective sighed, chuckling darkly as he wiped the back of his hands over his cheeks, clearing away the tears. "It's all right, Mycroft, " he whispered eventually, pushing himself out of the chair and straightening his suit in an effort to regain some of his composure. "You couldn't have known."

"But I _should_ have," Mycroft said softly, gazing at his brother's sad form. "I _am_ sorry, Sherlock. Had I known..."

"Best not to dwell on the past," Sherlock whispered, lips twitching up in a half-hearted smile. "What's done is done... I uhh... Apologize for the books. That was... Uncalled for."

"Not at all," Mycroft said quietly, reaching forward to pat his brother's shoulder in a rare show of compassion. "Don't worry about it." In an attempt to lighten the suddenly heavy mood, the government official straightened his back, giving Sherlock a small smile. "I understand now why the Ugly Duckling was your favorite childhood book now."

The detective couldn't help but utter something between a laugh and a sob. "Yes, that does seem to explain a lot, hmm?" he chuckled, giving Mycroft a thankful smile. "Thank you," he murmured, resuming his tall composure. "I really appreciate it and—"

"Daddy?" came the muffled call of Hamish's tiny voice. Sherlock paused mid-sentence, suddenly remembering that he had the baby monitor in his pocket. "Oh," he sighed, pulling it out as he heard another frantic cry of his son's voice.

"It's all right. Go and see him," Mycroft reassured gently.

"Thank you, brother," Sherlock said sincerely, giving Mycroft a small smile before disappearing into the dark hallway.

"Hamish, shh. I'm right here," the detective whispered, hurrying into the bedroom. Sherlock almost felt as if his legs might collapse out from under him as he saw his son's tiny form reaching for him in the dark. "Hamish," he sighed in relief, quickly pulling clutching the little boy close to his chest. "I'm sorry... I'm here, it's all right now. Please don't cry..."

"Daddy," Hamish sniffled, snuggling into his father's touch.

"Yes..." Sherlock whispered, softening his grip around the little boy's body. "I'm here, Hamish... Now. What seems to be the problem, hmm?"

Content to be in the detective's arms, Hamish's sniffling ceased. "Hame had scared," the little boy whispered, staring up Sherlock with wide eyes, fistfuls of his father's shirt clutched in each of his hands.

"You were scared, hmm?" the detective murmured, cradling his son's body close to his chest. Thinking, Sherlock paused, gazing down at Hamish with soft eyes. "Come on," he whispered eventually, setting the little boy on the ground and quickly following suit so they were eye-to-eye. "Let's have a walk." Smiling wistfully at his son's beautiful face, Sherlock bent forward, pressing a tender, impromptu kiss to the corner of the little boy's lips.

"Mmm," Hamish sighed contently, reaching forward and wrapping his chubby fingers around the detective's thumb. "'Kay, Daddy," he whispered, a small, content smile spreading across his face as Sherlock pulled back.

"Wonderful." With fond eyes, the detective stood up, simultaneously guiding Hamish out of the room and into the hallway. "What, Daddy?" the little boy asked, though Sherlock knew his son was really asking where they were going to walk.

"Anywhere," he whispered, releasing his grasp around Hamish's hand to place his fingertips to the back of the little boy's bare back. "I'll follow."

A tiny, almost amazed smile on his face, Hamish reached out, grabbing his father's trousers with one hand for balance and started toddle forward, occasionally tilting backward, only to be caught by Sherlock's capable fingers. "There you go. Very good," the detective would whisper each time.

Sherlock watched with a loving gaze as Hamish toddled around, walking up and down countless hallways and corridors, always ready to catch the little boy when he stumbled. The detective chuckled to himself when he noticed that Hamish was starting to lose his energy; the little boy was now resting nearly all of his weight against his leg. "Here," he whispered, bending down to pull the little boy into his arms. "Let's head back, hmm?"

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish yawned, wrapping a chubby hand around the collar of his father's shirt. The little boy watched with tired eyes, head resting against Sherlock's shoulder as the two made their way back to the room.

"You did a very good job," the detective praised quietly, gazing at his son's tired eyes in the dim light.

"'Es, Daddy?" Hamish seemed to ask.

"Yes," Sherlock chuckled, pressing a quick kiss to the little boy's temple. "You did an excellent job."

"Hmm... Daddy..."

Sherlock watched with a loving gaze as Hamish's eyes started to flutter shut, opening and closing with the gentle rhythm of his father's pace. "Yes?"

"'Ove," he whispered, draping his arms over Sherlock's shoulders.

The detective smiled, a peaceful warmth running across his chest. "Thank you, Hamish," he murmured, placing a soft kiss to the top of the little boy's head. "I love you, too..."

"Hmm..." With a small smile gracing his lips, Hamish's eyes slid shut, his grip tightening around his father's neck.

"Goodnight, Hamish," Sherlock murmured, pressing his son's sleeping form closer as he planted a tender kiss to the little boy's curls. "I love you."


	30. Chapter Thirty: Christmas Eve

Chapter Thirty: Christmas Eve

"Hamish? What're you doing up?" Sherlock asked quietly, turning around on his stool to gaze at the little boy, who had just emerged from his room, hair ruffled from sleep and a tiny bunny rabbit clutched tightly in his hands. The detective's fingers were still poised over one of the knobs on his microscope as he took note of the way Hamish's cheeks were flushed a light pink and the small frown on his son's face. "What's wrong, Hamish?" he asked softly.

"Mmm," the little boy groaned unhappily, pressing a tired fist to his eyes in an attempt to rub the sleep away. "Ouch, Da'ey," he mumbled, gazing at Sherlock with sad eyes. "Owie..."

"What hurts?" the detective asked, quickly sliding off the stool and hurrying over to his son. "Do you feel like you might be sick?" he whispered, kneeling in front of the little boy.

"No, Daddy..." Frown deepening, Hamish pointed to his head as his face scrunched together in discomfort. "Daddy 'etter?" he whispered, eyes quickly filling with tears.

Sherlock smiled sadly at the little boy, running a gentle hand up and down his arm. "I can most certainly try," he whispered, pulling him close in a comforting hug. "Come on then. Let's go see if we have any medicine to help, hmm?"

"'Es 'ease, Daddy," Hamish mumbled sadly in reply, keeping one arm wrapped around the stuffed animal as he grabbed ahold of several of Sherlock's fingers.

"Good boy," the detective praised, giving his son's fingers a gentle squeeze. With a loving smile on his face, Sherlock stood up, gently guiding Hamish through the kitchen.

Keeping the little boy's hand wrapped safely in his own, Sherlock quickly sifted through the drawers and cabinets, trying to find some Tylenol for Hamish. "Finally!" he sighed in exasperation upon finding the bottle. "I'm sorry that took so long, Hamish," he added, quickly finding a spoon and twisting off the cap. "Here we are." With a reassuring smile, and medicine in hand, Sherlock quickly knelt down onto one knee.

"Uck, Daddy?" Hamish whispered quietly, eyeing the liquid in his father's hands.

"A little," the detective chuckled.

"Mmm... 'Kay."

"Very good, Hamish." Smiling reassuringly, Sherlock quickly shoved the spoon into the little boy's mouth, almost chuckling at the disgusted look on his son's face. "Sorry," he whispered, dropping the spoon into the sink as he stood up, keeping Hamish's hand between his fingers.

"Uky, Daddy!" the little boy exclaimed unhappily, frowning as he tried to rid the nasty taste from his mouth.

"I know, I know. I'm sorry. But that should help you feel better... I'm sorry you have a headache," Sherlock murmured quietly as he brushed some of the little boy's curly hair out of his eyes. A loving smile on his lips, the detective leaned forward to press a tender kiss to Hamish's forehead.

"'Kay, Daddy... Daddy?"

"Yes, Hamish?" the detective whispered, bending back down until he was eye-to-eye with the little boy. "What is it?"

"Daddy... Daddy stay at Hame?" the little boy asked quietly. With hopeful eyes, Hamish reached forward, grabbing onto the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt.

The detective paused, staring at his son with sad eyes. "Of course I'll stay with you, Hamish... Come on. It's Christmas Eve. What do you say we go and watch some Christmas movies?" he asked gently, brushing his thumb over Hamish's cheek.

"Hmm," the little boy sighed in response. A tiny smile forming on his lips, Hamish leaned forward, falling into his father's arms. "'Es 'ease, Daddy."

"Excellent." A loving smile on his lips, Sherlock reached forward, wrapping his arms around Hamish's small body as he glanced at the clock. 9:39. Hamish would probably be out before the first film was over. "My goodness," the detective sighed dramatically, moving his son to his hip as he slowly walked out of the kitchen. "You are getting to be such a big boy! Soon I won't be able to do this anymore." Sherlock couldn't help but pause as it occurred to him that one day he really _wouldn't_ be able to hold Hamish like that... Saddened by the thought, the detective moved the little boy from his hip to his chest, cuddling his smaller form close.

"Daddy," Hamish sighed contently, snuggling into his father's tender touch. "'Kay, Daddy?" he whispered, closing his eyes.

"Yes, Hamish. I'm all right Thank you... I love you, you know," he added suddenly, grinning as he saw the little boy's lips curve up into a small smile.

"'Es, Daddy," Hamish whispered quietly, keeping his eyes closed. "An' Hame 'ove."

Unable to help himself, the detective leaned forward, pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the top of his son's head. "I know," he whispered softly, letting his lips brush against the little boy's curls as he spoke.

A small smile playing on his lips, Sherlock slowly moved to the couch, and sat down, opting to keep Hamish on his lap rather than place him next to him. "There we are," he murmured, running a quick hand over the little boy's back. "Ready?"

"Mmm-hmm," Hamish hummed sleepily, temple rubbing against his father's chest as he nodded up and down.

"Good." Gazing down at his son with warm eyes, Sherlock quickly grabbed the remote and clicked to what had become Hamish's favorite Christmas movie: Miracle on 34th Street. The detective couldn't help but grin as he heard the little boy gasp in his arms upon hearing the opening.

With wide, excited eyes, Hamish turned in his father's arms, groaning quietly as the movement only furthered the pain in his head. "Daddy," he whined, pressing a few fingers to his forehead as he frowned.

"Here. I'll get it," Sherlock chuckled, gently turning the little boy on his legs until he was facing the television. "Would you like some water to help with your head?" he asked gently, running his fingertips over Hamish's stomach.

"Mmm-hmm. 'Es 'ease, Daddy," the little boy whispered, smiling contently as he gazed at the television.

"All right." Smiling lovingly at his son, Sherlock gently moved Hamish's small body to the right, careful to use slow movements so as not to upset his head even further.

The detective quickly moved around the kitchen, making a cup for the little boy and chuckled to himself as he heard Hamish start to squeal with happiness.

"Here you are," he laughed, moving back into the sitting room and handing Hamish the cup.

"Hmm? Oh! Ta, Daddy." Grinning at he movie on the screen, Hamish hopped off the couch waiting patiently while his father got situated again. "Up 'ease?"

Smiling at his son's happiness, Sherlock bent over and pulled Hamish onto his lap. "Better?" he asked quietly, placing a gentle hand on the little boy's back.

"Mmm," he hummed in reply, quickly snuggling into the detective's chest. "Good, Daddy."

"Good."

Throughout the movie, Sherlock watched with fond eyes as Hamish started to trace the gap of his collarbone, the little boy's chubby fingers incredibly gentle. The lights on the Christmas tree they had put up were dancing off of Hamish's face, illuminating his deep green eyes.

"You're so beautiful, Hamish," Sherlock murmured aloud, not even realizing he had done it."I love you." A tiny, wistful smile on his lips, the detective quickly brushed his fingertips over his son's forehead. Hamish blinked slowly at the contact, eyes slipping shut and then open again. The movie was nearly over and it was a wonder the little boy had made it this far.

"Daddy?" he whispered quietly, hand now resting in the gap he had previously been tracing.

"Yes, Hamish?" Sherlock asked softly, grabbing the remote and turning down the volume on the telly. "What is it? Does your head still hurt?"

"No, Daddy. Ask?"

"Of course. You can ask me anything you'd like."

"Uhh..." The little boy hesitated and he shifted slightly in Sherlock's lap, moving until he was in an almost-standing position, hands gripping onto the collar of his father's shirt. "What... What Daddy 'ove Hame?" he asked quietly, gazing into the detective's pale-blue eyes. "What 'ove?" he whispered again, face pulling into a worried expression.

"Why do I love you?" Sherlock asked gently, moving his hand until he was cradling the little boy's head in his palm.

"Mmm-hmm... W... Wh-ay?"

Sherlock thought for a moment, gazing into Hamish's deep sea-green irises and reveling in how they seemed to brighten with the lights from the tree. "Well," he murmured, his deep voice filling the quiet flat. "I love you for many reasons, Hamish... I love you because you're my son, and I wouldn't change that for the world. I love you because I think you're sweet and beautiful. I love you because of your beautiful green eyes; your curly hair... I love your smile and the way you giggle. I love you because... Because you're you. And you're positively perfect, Hamish," Sherlock finished softly, giving his son a warm smile. He quickly brushed his thumb over the little boy's cheek, before leaning in. "I love you, Hamish," he whispered gently before pressing an incredibly tender kiss to the little boy's forehead. "You're perfect."

"Oh... Daddy," Hamish signed in amazement, eyes sliding shut the detective kissed his forehead. "Hame 'ove! At heart," the little boy cried, throwing his chubby arms around his father's neck. "'Ove, Daddy..."

"I love you, too, Hamish. With all my heart," Sherlock whispered, tucking the little boy's head under his chin as he pulled him close. Smiling as he felt Hamish curl against his chest, the detective placed a gentle hand to the back of his son's head. "Happy Christmas Eve," he murmured, running his fingers through the little boy's curls.

"Mmm... Hap, Da'ey," Hamish whispered back, chubby fingers curling against the base of Sherlock's neck. "San?"

"Yes," the detective smiled, laying down on the couch. "Santa's coming tonight... Bringing presents for Christmas tomorrow."

"Oh. 'Kay, Daddy," Hamish yawned, lulled by his father's voice. "No see?" he added almost frantically, eyes flying open at the thought.

"No, no!" Sherlock chuckled, running a quick hand over the little boy's back. "Don't worry; you won't have to see him. He comes while you're sleeping." The detective smiled down at his son chuckling to himself. Several weeks ago, he and John had attempted to take Hamish to see Santa Clause. Upon being placed on the man's lap, the little boy became absolutely terrified. It took nearly forty minutes for the flat mates to calm him down and then another fifteen to explain that although Santa _would_ visit their home, they would not see each other.

Smiling at the thought, Sherlock reached down, and grabbed a blanket that was lying on the floor. "There you go," he murmured softly, draping the fabric over Hamish's curled-up form. "Are you warm enough?"

"Mmm-hmm. 'Es, Daddy," the little boy sighed contently, nuzzling against his father's chest.

"Good."

"Nigh' nigh', Daddy... Hame 'ove. 'Ove, Daddy."

Sherlock couldn't help but smile down at his son. "Goodnight, Hamish. I love you, too... Sleep well."

"Mmm." With one last, tiny yawn, Hamish fell asleep, one hand resting in the gap at the base of the detective's neck, a fistful of his father's shirt clutched tightly in his other hand.

"Goodnight, Hamish. I love you," Sherlock whispered quietly. With soft eyes, the detective started to trace his fingers over his son's tiny back, smiling at the slow rise and fall of the little boy's back. "You're perfect."

Listening to the gentle breathing of his son, Sherlock remained on the couch, gazing around at the flat, which was lit with a warm, orange haze from the tree. The light bounced off of Hamish's dark curls, highlighting the brown-red tints in the little boy's auburn hair.

Smiling with a tender gaze, Sherlock tucked the blanket further around his son's sleeping form, and placed his hand on the little boy's back. With a deep breath, the detective closed his eyes, lips quirking up as his hand rose and fell with each of Hamish's deep breaths.

* * *

John returned home at an entirely ungodly hour, a little tipsy from having drunk too much. Rubbing his forehead, the doctor quickly hurried into the flat. He glanced into the living room, chuckling sarcastically when he saw Sherlock, sprawled across the couch, a blanket draped over his chest. He was about to head up to his room when he heard a tiny sigh. Brows pulled together in confusion, John's eyes scanned over his friend again. The doctor's gaze softened as he saw Hamish's head peeking out from under the blanket, and noticed that Sherlock had his hand splayed across the little boy's back.

"You big softie," John whispered, smiling fondly at his flat mates. "'Night, you two." With another quick smile, the doctor quickly slipped up the stairs, not noticing as Sherlock's lips quirked up into a small smile.


End file.
